Tiptoes

Sister mine on tiptoes fled.

We didn’t see her go.

Silent we sat that afternoon

Before it began to snow.

We searched all night with lanterns bright

While Father clutched the phone.

When silence stretched ’til rosy dawn,

We sensed we were still alone.

Months crawled past and Mother cried

For the little girl lost in the wood.

So I set out with my walking stick

To do whatever I could.

My shoulder sagged with a bag of tricks:

The iron. The bread. The salt.

The fairies just laughed while baring their teeth

And said it was all my fault.

Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity

Bodhi braces his feet on the board. He’s been wanting to do this for ages.

His sister asked: “Why would you want to surf a tsunami?”

“I like a challenge.”

“You realize you’ll probably be riding with a lot of dead bodies.”

Now his sister’s words ring in his head as he looks at the water beneath him. People have plenty of warning for these weekly waves… but there are always casualties. Some won’t leave the danger zone. It’s rumoured that others are forced into it.

The mountain of water rolls under him as he speeds toward the cliff face.

Tea Time

There’s a bright flash when she steps into her genius brother’s room. Before she can deliver Mom’s message to put his gross undies in the laundry, something hits her.

Suddenly, she’s six inches tall. She has to ride the cat to the kitchen to try to get Mom’s attention. He jumps on the counter—even though he’s not supposed to—and she can’t hold on. Plop! Into the tea she goes.

She’s a strong swimmer.

But she’s not immune to the near-boiling water.

Of all the ways she could’ve died, she never expected to poach in a cup of tea.

One Perilous Condiment

“Oh, crap,” Mike said, watching his sandwich fall down, down, down, exploding with tomatoes, cheese, and mayonnaise on the sidewalk below. His stomach rumbled an admonishment. Only halfway through his balcony-painting shift, suspended from an uncomfortable harness, he was hungry. And when he got hungry, he got hangry. Nobody wanted to see that. He pulled out his phone.

“Hey, wifey,” he said. “Dropped my sandwich. Can you make me another one and run it over?”

“Sure. What do you want on it?”

“No mayo. It’s too greasy when—” His phone slipped out of his hand and fell down, down, down…

Keep Playing

“Keep playing, Jim!”

“But I can’t see what I’m doing. You sure you saw the cops down the street?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Keep that mask on.”

“It’s too hot for a rubber horse mask.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you robbed that place.”

“But I needed hoof polish!”

“You don’t even have a horse, Jim.”

“I’m getting one.”

“Sure you are. Just like you were getting a yacht.”

“The financing fell through. Not my fault.”

“Why do I even hang out with you? It always leads to trouble. Look at me! I don’t even play the accordion!”

“Keep playing, Bob.”

When Pigs Fly

Portia knew that practice was important if she wanted to be a ballerina.

Every morning, she stepped outside to practice. She twirled in the sunlight, pointing her toes.

“You’ll never be a dancer,” her little brother squealed.

“And you’ll be a superhero when pigs fly!” she shot back. “At least reaching my goal is possible.”

“Yeah, well—” he began, then stopped. He stared at something behind her. She turned to look.

Their daddy’s prize pig was doing petit battements in the mud.

“If you can teach a pig to dance,” her brother said, “maybe I can teach it to fly.”

Locked

He clipped the lock to the fence. The gesture was romantic enough.

After the accident, she wished she’d never allowed it.

She paced before the chain links, listening to the lock rattle in the lonely wind. Beyond lay the vacant lot with its shallow grave. The shoes weren’t even fully covered, but it didn’t matter. Nobody ventured in there.

Kids said the place was haunted.

Years later, he visited.

“You’re dead,” he said.

“So are you.”

His lips twisted. “At least my soul isn’t locked to the fence.”

She longed to shout at him. But he disappeared before she could.

The Collection

Every idea went into a bubble. It was the only way to keep everything straight in his head. Flowers, kittens, tears… all encased in a sphere. With each captured thought, his collection grew. He had another idea for a place to keep his trinkets—he called it a shelf—but since the idea for his storage solution was also encased in a bubble, he couldn’t actually use it.

Captured ideas drifted, catching the light. Wait… was that one a bad idea? His finger punctured the membrane, causing the idea within to vanish.

Why was his finger outstretched? He couldn’t remember.

For the Best

I collect antique keys. On my last birthday, my best friend gave me a whole set. I had no idea what they were for. Probably someone’s closet.

When I moved into this old house, I noticed the locked door in the hallway, so I tried out my new set.

The first key worked. I opened the door to the sound of screams.

The second key worked, too. Behind that door lurked the scent of blood.

The third key stuck in the lock. I couldn’t get it out, nor could I open the door again.

That was probably for the best.

Shells and Wings

by Nissa Harlow

When I put my ear against his, I can hear the sea.

He hasn’t been the same since the day the waters tried to steal him from my arms.

When we walk at the shore, he stares at the setting sun with kelp-hued eyes until they start to water. His steps stop. His knees bend. His body twists into the sideways scuttle of a deranged crustacean. I won’t let go of his hand, so I go along for the ride as he dodges tourists and baby strollers, tangling in retractable leashes while I hop a crazy game of canine jumprope and whisper weak apologies. He always ends up in the same place, tucked in the shadow of a massive piece of driftwood, arms and legs folded into a neat package while I stand, stooped, and tug on his hand.

The doctors said he would be fine, given time.

When we order pizza, he insists on extra anchovies and eats with both hands, fingers arranged like pincers as they dart the cheesy slices toward his mouth. He won’t talk to me while he eats. He picks off the offending mushrooms with his claws and adds too much salt to his glass of water. The paper napkins with the pizzeria’s logo lie in shreds under his chair.

Time was given.

When we lie in bed, he’s as still as stone, frozen in slumber. But I can’t sleep. The sound of crashing waves keeps me awake. I take a pair of disposable earplugs from the drawer and insert them in his ears. The night grows quiet once more. But I still can’t sleep. I go to the balcony and clutch at the railing as I wait for more time. The sky tried to steal me once. That was before it changed its mind and sent me back.

The doctors said I would be fine, given time.

Time was given.

I wish for my promised wings as he wishes for his promised shell.

When he puts his ear against mine, I wonder what he hears.

“Shells and Wings” was first published by Kinpaurak on 05 April 2025.

Postcard of Doom

The postcard’s shiny material wasn’t quite metal or plastic, and it wouldn’t bend. She gazed at the photo on the front, a panoply of stars that stretched up into the sky.

“Who’s that from?” her boyfriend asked.

She didn’t answer as she turned the card over. A strange language crawled across the iridescent surface, etched rather than inked. For some reason, she could read it.

She wished she couldn’t.

“I think it ended up in our mailbox by mistake,” she said.

Great. How am I supposed to warn the world about a wandering black hole that’ll be here by Saturday?

Modesty

I watched her step onto the street, paying no attention to the cars that slowed and swerved. Crouching, she placed the yellow leaf over the crotch area of the figure painted on the asphalt.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked when she was safely on the sidewalk again.

“Don’t talk like that!” she snapped. “And, if you must know, I’m preserving modesty.”

“Of what? A stick figure?”

“It’s a representation of a person.”

“Yeah… without a representation of a penis.”

Her cheeks went red. “Hush!”

“Oh, hush yourself,” I said. “You’ve gotten weird since you joined that cult.”

Pointless

He had to find that journal entry before she did.

This is what you get for lying, he admonished himself, kneeling before the overwhelming stack of notebooks. Did you really think she wouldn’t find out?

Paper cuts sliced his fingertips. The smell of musty paper assaulted his nose.

He couldn’t find it.

A knot of regret tightened in his stomach as he pulled the lighter from his pocket.

* * *

“Did you,” she asked, “start that fire?”

He stared at the flaming building across the street, silent.

“I read your journal,” she said. “I know about the old arson charge.”

He sighed.

Upside Down

He awoke staring up at a field. Hanging weeds tickled his face, and he panicked as he noticed the squishy wetness beneath him. Blood?

No. Just a cloud.

Relieved, he stood, watching the world wobble as the ground above moved relative to his head, always staying just out of reach. As he began to walk, the tips of the weeds rustled about his ears.

Whisp, whisp, whisp.

He stopped.

“Is someone there?” he asked.

No answer. He turned in a slow half circle. A pair of legs hung before him, suspended from the ground.

The feet wore his favourite shoes.

File Not Found

This wasn’t supposed to happen with a digital camera.

Each artificial click of the shutter preceded a smear of white on the tiny screen.

There must be something on the lens.

He uploaded the pictures to his laptop. Gossamer glitches flickered across the files with each click.

The room grew cold.

Contrast deepened. Limbs solidified. Black holes punctured the ephemeral wraith, suggesting a face. With a shudder, he moved to the last photo.

The screen went dark, and then he could see the reflection: a gauzy smudge, the chill manifest, as she whispered a note of revenge into his ear.

Perspective

I found the bike leaning against a tree near the nest. Its owner wouldn’t be coming back.

The tires needed air, so it was a rough ride home. The checkpoint waved me through. Obviously, I wasn’t the enemy. Those guys could barely walk, let alone ride a bicycle.

The brakes squeaked as I hit our driveway. Dad, chatting with our next-door neighbour, looked up in annoyance. But his expression lightened when he saw the bike.

“Nice, right?” I said, swinging off the seat. “I found it near the nest.”

Our neighbour let out a choked cough. “That’s my husband’s bike.”

Give Me a Hand

“Come back!” Geoff shouted.

I ignored him and kept wading. The icy water was no match for my jeans. Shuddering against the chill, I continued, aiming for the gnarled hand sticking out of the water.

“It’s not… It’s…”

“If you’re not going to help me,” I shouted back, “shut up!”

“It’s a trap!” he roared, his voice echoing off the water. I stopped. The frigid liquid lapped around my waist. The hand was just a few feet away, trembling in desperation.

I took a step back. But the hand darted out with a stinging splash and closed around my wrist.

Hairy Witness

Her breath smelled like kibble. Somehow, my partner missed that. He sat, notebook on knee, staring at the creature wrapped in a blanket: Mrs. Popplewhite, apparently, though unless the woman was badly in need of electrolysis, I doubted it.

“That,” I whispered, leaning close to my partner’s ear, “is not Caroline Popplewhite.”

“Huh? Sure, it is.” He frowned at the football-shaped critter, who suddenly let its tongue loll.

I rolled my eyes and stood. “Mrs. Popplewhite?” I called. Another small dog emerged from the kitchen. It sat, then raised its paw toward the blanket-wrapped creature.

“She’s right there,” it said.

The Next Attempt

“Why did you tie that balloon to the chair?” Mom asked. “You’ll give your father ideas.”

“He already had that idea last summer,” I said. “And it didn’t work, so—”

“So, he’s going to try again. Get rid of it.”

I grabbed a knife and stabbed the balloon. Mom yelped. The dog skittered and tried to run outside, but the screen door was closed, and he just bounced back into the room, looking confused.

“What’s going on down there?” Dad shouted from upstairs.

“Nothing!” Mom said. “Want some birthday cake?”

“Nope. Gotta keep my weight down for my next attempt.”

I thought I’d share some of the stories that didn’t make the cut here in a weekly post. Yes, some will be very weird. Enjoy!

Nobody Cares

Dirk’s castle is the most pathetic in the land.

He isn’t a king or a prince or even a duke, so it makes sense that his castle isn’t very impressive. There’s one crumbling turret that leans over a scummy moat. There are only three rooms, all drafty. The portcullis is rusted and has a hole from some skirmish that happened before Dirk signed the papers. (He didn’t ask the real estate agent about that.)

But since the place is a dump, nobody cares. Dirk lives there happily, safe in the knowledge that nobody will ever want to storm his castle.

Another Rejection

Dear Author,

Thank you for submitting your 100-word story, “Baked-Bean Soliloquy Over Brampton.” While we found the premise interesting, ultimately, we thought that the character development was lacking. In particular, Germaine needed far more page time to develop his backstory as a narcoleptic test pilot with three failed marriages. We appreciated the metaphor regarding bowel disease and sonic booms, though some readers admitted to being confused. Likewise, the side plot about mutating carp and their vaudeville act was perhaps not quite right for this market.

We wish you the best in finding a home for your unique story.

Sincerely,

Editor

Strange Expectations

Something will be burning.

You’ll sniff like a dog, but you won’t be able to figure it out. The mystery will drive you to the kitchen, and you’ll examine the room as if your life depends on it… because it probably does. You’ll check the obvious culprits—stove, oven, toaster, air fryer, coffee maker—but still not find the source of the acrid stench.

So you’ll go to the laundry room. Surely, you’ll think to yourself, it’s the dryer. But the large appliance will be sitting there, coolly innocent.

Only then will you notice the smoke coming from your navel.

I read/played “You Are a Wolf” by back in June and was inspired to try creating my own interactive story. (Thank you, Mata, for the tips on linking!)

You’ll need to read this story in your browser because the e-mail version will limit what you can see and you won’t be able to play the full story. That’s no fun!

IMPORTANT: Do not read this story in order! It won’t make any sense. Start with the first section, “Finding the Advent Calendar.” At the end of each section, you’ll see either a direction or a choice in a bold link. Click on a link to make your way through the story and repeat as necessary. If you hit an ending, you can go back and try another choice… or you can click THE END to go back to the beginning and start again.

Are you ready for some holiday shenanigans? Get ready to open the first door of the advent calendar.

Good luck!

You’re going to need it.

Finding the Advent Calendar

You find the old advent calendar at the antique store on the last day of November. It’s beautiful, made of wood, with a painted case and intricately carved, numbered doors that can be opened with tiny crystal doorknobs. You always loved it when you got one of those chocolate-filled advent calendars as a kid. This one looks far more sophisticated, and you won’t mind having it as part of your classy Christmas decor.

When you take it up to the counter, the woman takes one look at it and blanches. Still, she smiles.

“Is that all for you today?” she asks.

You nod and pay for the antique with your credit card. Just as you’re about to leave, the woman takes a deep breath.

“Enjoy your advent calendar,” she says. “But make sure to open all twenty-four doors, starting tomorrow.”

“Or what?” you ask.

“Bad luck.”

“Wait... this thing brings bad luck?”

The woman purses her lips and shrugs.

Now you’re not so sure you want the advent calendar.

🎁

Ask for your money back.

Ignore the warning and take your treasure home.

Telling Your Dad to Stop Feeding the Cat

“Dad,” you say, “if you don’t stop that, you’re going to make Baby sick.”

“Turkey’s too rich for cats,” your mom adds.

He straightens up. “I’m not feeding the cat turkey.”

“Then what are you feeding it?” you ask.

“Baby seems to like the casserole.”

We all look at the green-bean dish sitting in the middle of the table, creamy breadcrumbs coating the verdant veggies.

From under the table, there’s the unmistakeable sound of a puking cat.

🎄

Tell your dad to clean it up.

Writing Off the Ladder Mishap as a Coincidence

Don’t be paranoid, you tell yourself. The ladder is old. It was bound to collapse sooner or later.

Still, you’re a little apprehensive when you open the next little door on December fourth. Inside is a ring. It’s made of plastic, and the seams scratch your skin as you try to slip it onto your finger.

Then it gets stuck.

By the time you get the ring off—dental floss, soap, and butter having done the trick—your finger is scratched, stinging, and red. You wash the ring off as best you can and put it back behind its door, vowing to be more careful with the next thing you find in there.

🎄

Wait to see what Day Five will bring.

Making a Snowman

It doesn’t snow that often, and you want to take advantage of it. So you bundle up and go outside.

Making a snowman by yourself takes a while, but you end up with three big balls stacked upon each other. Something’s missing, you think. So you go inside to grab a scarf and a carrot. On your way back outside, Baby tries to squeeze past your legs. You block the cat and close the door a little too hard, slipping on the icy stoop and landing on your back. The force shakes loose a huge icicle hanging high above. It plunges straight down, impaling you through the heart.

You die, still clutching the scarf and the carrot, and by the time you’re found, the icicle has melted. The neighbours don’t know what to make of it.

THE END

Waiting to See What the Second Day Will Bring

On the second day of December, you have your coffee before you brave the advent calendar. Maybe it won’t be so bad today.

You hold your breath and open the second door, only to let it out in a disappointed rush when you see what’s inside.

Nothing. Well, not quite nothing, judging by the smell. There’s something sort of furry and black inside. Is that… black mould?

“Gross,” you say, slamming the door shut. You stalk away to wash your hands. The last thing you want is to get sick right before Christmas.

As you’re rinsing the soap from your hands, you smell something nasty. A quick investigation of the shower reveals a colony of black mould that definitely wasn’t there yesterday.

You wonder why the apparently cursed advent calendar was even allowed to be sold. What’s behind the next door? Uranium?

🎁

Brace yourself for Day Three.

Get rid of the obviously dangerous antique.

Convincing Yourself You Can Do Without Bread Until Shopping Day

You don’t need bread that badly. Besides, you’re probably eating too many carbs as it is.

You finish making your coffee, feed the cat, and go do some work.

🎄

Open Door Twenty.

Proceeding to Day Seven

Day Seven’s door reveals a raisin. At least, it looks like a raisin. It could be a mouse turd. (But you really hope it isn’t.) Remembering the tiny skull and the visitor in the kitchen on Day One, you go and check the mousetrap. It’s empty. You haven’t seen (or heard) any mice in the last few days, either.

Weird.

You leave the baited trap where it is and grab an energy bar to go with your cup of coffee. But as soon as you bite into it, you know something’s wrong.

“What the hell?” you say, staring accusingly at the bar. When you check the wrapper, you see your mistake. Oatmeal raisin. With a shudder, you toss the bar with the vile dried fruits into the trash, grab your coffee, and head for your computer to do some work.

🎄

Get curious about Day Eight.

Opening the Door for Day Ten

You open the door with the “10” carved into it. Inside is what looks like a curl of dried lemon peel.

“Ha,” you say. “Is that the lemon life gave me that I’m supposed to make lemonade out of?” You close the door on the bit of fruit and shake your head.

When you go out to pick up some groceries, you see that fruitcake is on sale, so you pick up the last one in the display and put it in your basket. You’ve always loved fruitcake, especially when it has lots of candied citrus.

At the self-checkout, you’re thwarted by the robot cashier. Every time you try to scan the fruitcake, you see an error message on the screen. You’re about ready to kick the machine when a little old lady steps up beside you.

“Having trouble?” she asks.

“Just a bit.”

“Try angling the barcode.”

You do as she says. The fruitcake finally registers.

“Thanks,” you say.

“You’re welcome, dear.” She adjusts her fluffy toque and turns to go.

“Wait,” you say.

She stops and turns back to you, waiting expectantly.

🎁

Offer the nice old lady the advent calendar.

Give the nice old lady your fruitcake.

Letting Your Dad Keep Feeding the Cat

You watch your father with narrowed eyes as he continues to sneak food to the cat, but you don’t say anything. Your mom’s always said that he’s the sort of person who never learns from warnings; he always has to get burned himself.

“Could I have some more mashed potatoes?” you ask instead, and when your mom passes them over, you take a big scoop. Gravy follows. Your dad keeps bending over and straightening up like he thinks nobody can see what he’s doing.

Maybe Baby’s stomach is stronger than you thought. You lean over and peer under the table… just as Baby heaves and hurls.

🎄

Tell your dad to clean it up.

Opening All the Doors at Once

This advent calendar certainly seems to have an effect on luck, and you don’t feel like drawing it out until the twenty-fourth. So you decide to rip off the bandage.

Starting with the first door with the skull, you open each one, leaving the doors open as you go. The objects within don’t get any less disturbing. By the time you’ve opened twenty, the room is starting to feel… weird. Not cold, but not hot, either. Your skin itches, but it also feels like someone is pouring warm water over it. Could it be the mould from Day Two?

You hope not.

The last door is carved with the number twenty-four. You pinch the tiny doorknob and take a deep breath. When you go to pull it open, the knob snaps off.

“Are you kidding me?” you shout.

With a roar of frustration, you pull the advent calendar from the mantel and smash it on the floor. Dread washes over you as you realize what you’ve done.

Misfortune is coming. You can feel it. But you don’t know when it’ll hit. All you can do is wait… and wonder… and worry.

Forever.

THE END

Asking for Your Money Back

“Actually,” you say, “I’ve changed my mind.”

The woman shakes her head, but before she can say anything, you go on.

“I forgot,” you say. “I’m already close to my credit limit this month, and I still need to go grocery shopping.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “All sales are final.” She points to a sign propped on the edge of the counter that says exactly that.

You sigh. “I guess this thing really is bad luck.”

🎄

Open the first door the next day.

Letting the Cat Go Commando

The cat’s diaper stinks, and you have a feeling you’ll probably be scratched if you actually try to wrestle a clean one onto it, so you decide to let the cat go commando. You manage to get the diaper off. The cat actually seems relieved and proceeds to give itself a bath. You shudder at what it’s going to be cleaning off its back end as you dispose of the dirty diaper.

You assumed you were saddled with an incontinent cat. As it turns out, this cat is far from incontinent, and you find that out when you go to wash your hands and the cat follows you into the bathroom. It’s actually toilet trained. You’ve seen videos of that online, but never thought you’d see it in person.

Grateful that you don’t need to go out and buy a litter box, you grudgingly accept that maybe having a cat won’t be so bad.

You add cat food to the shopping list.

🎄

Wonder what Day Fourteen will bring.

Waiting to See What Day Five Will Bring

On December fifth, the day dawns sunny. You might go for a walk later. But first… the advent calendar.

You open up the fifth door. Inside is a small lightbulb. When you pick it up and look closer, you see that the filament inside is broken. With a sigh, you replace it and close the door.

After breakfast, you decide to go for that walk before you start the day’s work. Your project deadline is coming up fast, and you need to put in a few hours today if you want to get it finished in time. But when you open the door and prepare to step outside, you’re nearly knocked over by a gust of wind. Dark clouds scud across the horizon. There’s a storm coming, and you don’t want to get caught in it.

You head for your computer instead. You open the project file and get started.

The lights go out, plunging the room into darkness.

“Seriously?” you shout.

There’s no power for the rest of the day. You’re stuck shivering with candles and the light from your phone—until that, too, loses power because you can’t charge the battery.

Is this because of the advent calendar? you wonder. It seems like there’s a pattern.

🎁

Trash the cursed calendar.

Tell yourself you’re seeing patterns where there aren’t any.

Bracing Yourself for Day Nineteen

Day Nineteen brings a tiny loaf of bread. It’s little more than a crouton, though it looks perfect enough to sit on a dollhouse’s kitchen table. You leave it in its compartment and go to make breakfast.

Baby sits on the counter, watching you make your coffee.

“That’s a terrible habit,” you tell the cat. It blinks, then gets up to stroll across the glass cooktop. Luckily, the stove hasn’t been on yet today, so it’s not hot. “That’s an even worse habit,” you say. “If you burn your paws, don’t come crying to me.”

“Mrrow,” Baby says.

“Yeah. I know you will.”

When you open the fridge to grab the creamer, you smell something funky. Poking around reveals a plastic bag with some greenish bread. You don’t usually put your bread in the fridge. But you’ve been so distracted lately that you’re not surprised you did something like that.

You toss the bread in the garbage.

🎁

Go grocery shopping.

Convince yourself you can do without bread until shopping day.

Looking Forward to Day Twenty-Four

When you wake up on Christmas Eve, it’s with a great sense of relief. As you sit up in bed, you notice Baby curled up against your hip. You pet the cat, who seems to enjoy it.

“Day twenty-four,” you say. “Shall we see what’s behind that last door?”

“Mrrow,” Baby says, almost as if it understood you.

The two of you go to the living room. Baby leaps onto the mantel. You open the carved door.

“Huh,” you say when you see the folded piece of paper inside. It looks like some sort of receipt. For a moment, your hopes rise; maybe this can help you get a refund from the antique store. But when you pull out the paper and unfold it, you realize it’s not a receipt.

It’s a lottery ticket.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” you tell the cat, who’s examining the Christmas tree with a little too much interest. You transfer the cat to the floor before going to get your phone. The date on the lottery ticket is December first, so the winning numbers should be online.

But they’re not. All you can find are this week’s and last week’s numbers. So you may or may not be holding a winning ticket in your hand.

Based on the last twenty-four days, you suspect the ticket is worthless. But you stick it in your wallet, anyway.

🎄

Get ready for dinner.

Trying to Relax

You flop on the couch and stare at the Christmas tree. It’s a full-size one, not like the pathetic thing sitting on your mantel at home. Baby seems entranced with the lights. You don’t bother to stop it when it decides to try climbing the tree from the inside.

After a little while, your dad comes bearing apologetic plates of pumpkin pie. Your mom joins you, and the evening finishes on a slightly better note. Your mom’s not happy about the cat crawling around inside the tree, but Baby’s happy and doesn’t seem to be causing any damage.

After pie, you exchange gifts. Because you won’t be seeing your parents tomorrow, everyone opens their gifts now. Your mom loves her mittens. Your dad loves his new barbecue brush. You don’t love the ugly sweater your parents gave you, but it’s the thought that counts, so you thank them profusely.

Later, when you and Baby are on the way home, bellies full (well, you’re not sure how full the cat’s stomach is), you remember the lottery ticket in your wallet.

🎁

Give the ticket to the driver as part of the tip.

Resolve to track down the winning numbers in the morning.

Throwing Away the Advent Calendar

You’ve had enough. For some reason, the garbage truck hasn’t been around yet—even though it’s garbage day—so you hurry to take the advent calendar out. The rain soaks you as you stuff the cursed antique into the wheelie bin, and by the time you get back inside, you’re shivering.

By the evening, your throat is sore and you can’t get warm. You want so much to start up the fireplace. But you’re terrified of what might happen.

“Stupid advent calendar,” you mutter. “Worst. Purchase. Ever.”

THE END

Not Answering the Phone

The caller is your mom. Based on past experience, she’s probably panicking over green beans or brown sugar. You let the call go to voicemail. If it’s really important, she’ll keep trying to reach you.

You think about the little sunglasses from the advent calendar, growing more uneasy as the day progresses. Each item in the advent calendar has meaning, and you’re sure the sunglasses are no different.

Maybe you should’ve found out what your mom wanted.

The next time the phone rings, you brace yourself.

🎄

Answer the phone.

Opening the First Door the Next Day

On the first day of December, you wake up and head straight to the advent calendar. You haven’t even had a cup of coffee yet.

The first door is carved with an ornate number one. Inside the little compartment is a skull. Not a human skull. It’s from some sort of animal. A mouse, maybe? With a shudder, you close the door.

As you’re making your coffee, you hear a scuffing noise. When you look down, you see a mouse scurry across the floor. You yelp before you can stop yourself. Then you get out the mousetraps, wondering if the skull in the advent calendar has anything to do with the apparent infestation.

This is definitely not what you signed up for.

🎁

Get rid of the cursed thing.

Wait to see what the second day will bring.

Telling Yourself You’re Seeing Patterns Where There Aren’t Any

That’s silly, you tell yourself. It’s not a pattern. You’re not even halfway through the month. It’s just a coincidence.

So you push the niggling thoughts away and go on with your day.

On December sixth, you open the next door. It’s empty. In spite of the rash of bad luck, you’re actually kind of disappointed… and a little bit angry. Then again, you can’t always expect antiques to be in pristine condition. You’d probably be more surprised if every compartment had its object inside.

Resigning yourself to having to wait for tomorrow to find something interesting, you close the door and resume your day. And what an annoying day it is. You can’t seem to remember anything. You forget your e-mail password. You lose your keys—twice. You can’t remember what you planned to make for dinner, and you get halfway through making spaghetti marinara before realizing you’re out of garlic.

When you’re lying in bed later, realizing that you forgot to brush your teeth, you wonder if the day-long memory lapses have something to do with the advent calendar.

🎄

Proceed to Day Seven.

Hoping Day Twenty-Three Isn’t So Icky

When you wake up on December twenty-third, it’s still dark. You’re still grossed out by yesterday’s mail.

It’s a new day, you tell yourself. Forget about that box of sex toys.

You try… and eventually fall back asleep.

🎄

Open Door Twenty-Three.

Going Home Without Dessert

Day Eleven finds you without fruitcake and an uneasiness that you can’t seem to shake. You go to the advent calendar and open up the eleventh door. Inside is a single nail, the kind you might pound into your wall to hang a picture.

That reminds you. Many of the Christmas decorations are still in their box in the hall closet. You get them out and decide what you actually want to hang. The battery-operated string lights along the edge of the mantel? Definitely.

The tiny picture hooks you hammered into the wooden mantel last year are still there, though one seems to have disappeared. Luckily, there are some more in the box. So you get out your hammer and get to work replacing the missing one.

It isn’t long before you smash your thumb. You swear, eyes watering. Then it’s harder to see what you’re doing through the tears, and you bash your thumb again. Reeling back, you drop the hammer. Unfortunately, your slippers are no match for the heavy tool, which lands on your big toe. With a yowl, you kick off your slipper and peer at your foot.

The toenail’s probably going to turn black and fall off.

Great.

🎄

Make it to the halfway point.

Getting Rid of the Obviously Dangerous Antique

By the time you’ve scrubbed your hands, you’ve already got a headache. Can mould make you sick that fast? You’re afraid you’re about to find out.

The garbage truck won’t be around for another week, and you don’t want the advent calendar sitting around in the house until then. So you stuff it in a plastic bag and take it out to the curb.

Later that day, the doorbell rings. When you open the door, you find a sour-faced woman standing on the stoop.

“You can’t leave that there,” she says, pointing to the bag.

“I can’t have it in the house,” you say. “It’s toxic.”

The woman’s eyes widen. “Then it shouldn’t be on the street! Children play around here.”

“If they don’t touch it, they’ll be fine.”

The woman shakes her head. “I’ve already called the bylaw office. You’re not allowed to create an eyesore. It’s against the rules.”

“Who are you? The garbage police?”

“It’s a fifty-dollar fine.” She turns and storms away, giving the bag a dirty look as she goes.

You sigh. It looks like the advent calendar will cause problems whether it’s in your house or not.

THE END

Keeping the Advent Calendar to See What Happens Next

It’s Day Nine, and you’re getting weary of this whole thing. How could you ever have thought chocolates in an advent calendar were boring?

When you open the door, you see a single foam earplug.

By that afternoon, when someone is inexplicably jackhammering their driveway, you understand what the day’s “gift” is for.

Not that one earplug does much when you have two working ears.

You don’t even bother trying to use it. By the end of the day, you have a splitting headache.

🎄

Resolve to call the antique shop in the morning.

Pondering the Top Hat

Later that afternoon, you get a call from a friend and receive an invitation to a fancy Christmas banquet.

“I know it’s last minute,” your friend says, “but my plus one backed out.”

“I don’t know,” you say.

“Come on! It’ll be fun. It’s super formal. Ball gowns and top hats.”

Your gaze strays to the advent calendar. “Top hats?” you repeat.

“Well, I don’t know how many top hats there’ll actually be. But you get the idea.”

🎁

Accept the invitation to the banquet.

Decline the invitation to the banquet.

Answering Your Phone

The number on the screen isn’t one you recognize. You hesitantly answer.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end is unfamiliar and comes bearing unfortunate news. Your best friend from elementary school—whom you haven’t talked to in years—has died in a car crash and left behind a one-year-old. You’re not sure exactly what this has to do with you… until you’re told that, for some reason, you’re the godparent.

“You’re kidding,” you say.

They’re not kidding. “I’ll drop baby off tomorrow,” they say.

You wonder if the luck from the advent calendar is changing. After all, a one-year-old isn’t inherently a bad thing.

Is it?

🎄

Accept the one-year-old into your home.

Getting Curious About Day Eight

December eighth is gloomy and rainy. It’s not quite cold enough to snow, though. So there’s no excuse to turn on the gas fireplace, even though it always makes the place feel cozy.

You go to the advent calendar and open up door number eight. Inside is a tiny egg. When you pick it up, you can see a few cracks. You can also smell the rotten stench. You look at it for a few moments before replacing it in its compartment, wondering if it’s some sort of warning about natural gas. Just to be safe, you resolve to avoid the fireplace until after the twenty-fourth.

When lunchtime rolls around, you’re famished. You grab a container of leftovers out of the fridge and stick it in the microwave to heat up.

The beep of the timer jogs your memory, and you recall that you stuck the last egg in that container so it wouldn’t roll around loose in the fridge. The next sound you hear is a bang, and you jump back as something splatters against the inside of the microwave door.

You’ve always wondered what would happen if you put a raw egg in a microwave. Now you know.

And now you’re pretty sure that advent calendar is out to get you.

🎁

Keep the advent calendar to see what happens next.

Throw away the advent calendar.

Trashing the Cursed Calendar

Enough is enough. You want that thing out of your house. Carefully making your way to the living room, candle in hand, you spot the advent calendar in the shadows. You really do need two hands to lift it, so you set the candle down on the mantel first.

Your plan is to take the calendar out to the curb, but when you open the door, the wind throws the door into your face as it barges inside. You immediately taste blood, but you march down to the curb anyway, swearing the whole time, and dump the calendar. By the time you get back inside, your nose is bleeding onto your shirt. You go to fetch the candle so you can find your way to the bathroom.

The mantel is on fire. The wind must’ve knocked the candle over, onto the pine boughs and ribbons, and now they’re engulfed. Black smoke is curling from the glittery ribbons, and you marvel at the fact that you can’t smell it… before remembering that your nose is probably broken.

You pull out your phone to call 911, but it’s dead. So you run for the neighbours’, screaming something about evil decorations and hoping the fire department will arrive quickly enough to save your place.

Does insurance cover cursed advent calendars? It looks like you’re about to find out.

THE END

Offering the Nice Old Lady the Advent Calendar

“I’d like to repay you,” you tell the nice old lady. “Do you like antiques?”

“Antiques?” Her eyebrows rise up under her hat. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether they’re cursed. Most folks don’t give away perfectly good antiques unless there’s a perfectly good reason, now, do they?”

You look down at your groceries, feeling somewhat ashamed.

The old lady chuckles. “Thank you, dear. But if you really want to repay me… I wouldn’t say no to a fruitcake.”

You give her your fruitcake, which she tucks into her bag. As she walks away, you sigh. You were looking forward to dessert.

🎄

Go home without dessert.

Accepting the One-Year-Old into Your Home

You don’t even have time to open the thirteenth door when you get up the next morning. Someone pounds on your front door, and you answer it, only to find a harried-looking woman holding a yowling cat that smells like it really needs a diaper change. It is, in fact, wearing a diaper.

The cat’s dumped into your arms, a bulging bag is dumped on your doorstep, and the woman hightails it out of there.

“Wait!” you shout. “What is this thing’s name?”

“Baby!” the woman shouts back.

“Of course it is,” you mutter. Baby is screaming in your ear, which is kind of painful. You quickly grab the bag, close the front door, and take the cat into the living room. The Christmas tree isn’t up yet, which is too bad. Maybe Baby would’ve been distracted by the colourful lights.

You plunk the cat on the floor, where it continues to scream, and rummage around in the bag it came with, looking for some clean diapers. There are two.

Where the hell are you supposed to get more cat diapers?

“Please stop,” you say to the cat. It continues to wail. You turn to the advent calendar, as if it might have a solution to your problem. You don’t know why it would, though. It seems to have caused nothing but problems.

🎁

See what’s behind Door Thirteen.

Change the cat’s diaper.

Getting Ready for Dinner

You don’t feel like doing any work—after all, it’s Christmas Eve—so you watch a couple of holiday movies while you bake a last-minute batch of cookies to take to your parents’ house. Baby sits on the counter, watching, which grosses you out, but you don’t feel like fighting with the cat.

That afternoon, you put on something nicer than sweatpants; grab the cat, cookies, and gifts; and call a pet-friendly rideshare. It costs a fortune, but you don’t want to leave Baby alone for hours. Luckily, the cat is a decent traveller, and seems more curious than afraid at this change in routine.

“Merry Christmas!” your mom calls as you step inside your childhood home. It smells amazing in there. Even Baby notices. And your mom notices the cat. “Who’s this?”

“Baby,” you say.

“You didn’t tell me you got a cat.”

“It’s a long story.”

🎄

Introduce Baby to your dad.

Declining the Invitation to the Banquet

“I can’t go to the banquet,” you say with a sigh. “I won’t be able to find anything to wear now. Besides… I’m kind of… babysitting.”

“Oh.” Your friend sounds disappointed. You’re kind of disappointed, too. But you don’t think you can leave the cat by itself. Who knows what you’d find at the end of the evening?

You thank your friend for the offer and formally decline. When you hang up, you stare at Baby, who’s just walked into the room.

“Is this good luck or bad luck?” you ask. “I might’ve met the love of my life at that banquet. Then again, I might’ve gotten food poisoning.”

“Mrrow,” Baby says.

“Whatever.”

🎄

Brace yourself for Day Fifteen.

Changing the Cat’s Diaper

“Hush, Baby,” you say, grabbing one of the clean diapers. The smell in the living room is getting strong. But before you can get near the cat, it darts away. “Come here!”

Baby evades you, zigzagging between the furniture. You’re not in the mood.

“Baby! Let me change your diaper.”

The cat shouts at you and leaps onto the mantel. You wonder why this cat’s wearing a diaper to begin with, since it doesn’t seem to have any problem with its hind legs. It stalks along the mantel and starts to investigate the advent calendar.

“Leave that alone,” you say.

Baby does the opposite, sticking one paw behind the case and deftly pushing it off the edge. You gasp as you watch it fall. It lands on the hearth and smashes, releasing all the contents at once.

“Great,” you say. “That better not be twenty-four days’ worth of bad luck.”

Baby meows and sits down. You approach slowly. The cat watches as you reach out and pull on the diaper’s tabs. The plastic releases and Baby leaps away, leaving the soiled diaper behind.

“That’s disgusting,” you say, but you almost don’t get the words out because you’re gagging. You try to roll the dirty diaper into a ball and head for the bathroom so you can flush the poop. But when you get there, you see Baby perched on the edge of the toilet seat.

The cat is relieving itself.

“You have got to be kidding,” you say. But the cat’s not kidding. When it’s done, it actually reaches up and flushes. Maybe this cat isn’t so bad after all, you think.

That thought lasts about ten seconds. Then you see the water rising.

Baby has clogged the toilet.

THE END

Ignoring the Door for Day Ten

You really don’t feel like dealing with the advent calendar, so you ignore the door with the “10” carved into it and go about your day.

You cut your finger while chopping celery.

The blender quits halfway through making your daily smoothie.

You stub your toe on the leg of the kitchen table.

Your computer crashes right as you’re about to back up your work for the morning.

You slip climbing into the tub and bash your shin on the edge.

Bleeding, bruised, and annoyed, you storm to the advent calendar, fists clenched.

“What’s the difference?” you growl, feeling silly talking to an inanimate object, but you’re too pissed off to care. “I get bad luck whether I open the doors or not.”

The advent calendar just sits there.

🎁

Open all the doors at once.

Open the door for Day Ten.

Ignoring the Warning and Taking Your Treasure Home

You decide the woman is just trying to scare you (which seems like a counterproductive business practice if she wants repeat business) and take the advent calendar out to your car. The drive home goes without incident, and you start to relax.

When you get home, you prop the advent calendar on the mantel between some pine boughs and glittery ribbons.

🎄

Open the first door the next day.

Accepting the Invitation to the Banquet

“Okay,” you say. “A Christmas banquet sounds like fun.”

Your friend gives you all the necessary info, and you check the time. You have an hour or so before the mall closes, so you lock Baby in the bathroom and hurry to catch the bus.

It’s pouring rain. And it’s dark. Your coat is black, and you’re aware that’s not the safest choice for running around in a rainstorm at night. But the banquet is tomorrow, and you want to find something to wear as soon as possible.

You’re half a block away when you see the bus pulling up to the stop across the street. You start to run. The bus finishes picking up its passengers and starts to pull away from the curb. You wave your arms and shout as you run across the bus’s path, sure the driver will see you. The bus has headlights, after all.

But the driver doesn’t see you.

Your last thought is: I never did buy any cat food.

THE END

Telling Your Dad to Clean It Up

Everybody hears the sound, and everybody jumps to their feet at once.

“Dad!” you exclaim.

“Idiot!” your mom shouts.

“What?” your dad asks.

Baby says nothing. A moment later, you see the cat stroll out from under the table as if nothing has happened.

“I’m not cleaning it up,” you say before anyone can suggest such a thing.

“That’s your cat,” your dad says.

“I wasn’t the one trying to stuff it like a turkey!”

“Please,” your mom says. “Does every family holiday have to involve yelling?”

“Yes!” you shout.

Your dad looks at you guiltily. You storm after Baby, who appears to be headed for the Christmas tree in the living room.

Dinner’s over.

🎄

Try to relax.

Giving the Nice Old Lady Your Fruitcake

“I really appreciate your help,” you say. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Her gaze drifts to the fruitcake. You immediately hold it out to her. She takes it and tucks it into her bag. “My favourite,” she says. “Merry Christmas, dear.”

“Merry Christmas,” you say. The old lady walks away.

You finish checking out your groceries, pay, and pick up your bag. But as soon as you reach the door, a security guard steps in front of you.

“Can I see your receipt?”

You fish it out of the bag, heart pounding, and hand it to him. He frowns as he scans it.

“You didn’t pay for the fruitcake you had in your basket.”

“Yes, I did,” you say, wondering how long this guy’s been watching you. “Besides, I don’t even have the fruitcake. I gave it away.”

“Without paying for it.”

You shake your head and reach for the receipt. “I paid for it. The machine beeped…” You trail off as you look at the receipt. There’s no fruitcake on it. You swear.

He’s calling the cops now. You wonder what kind of sentence you’ll get for fruitcake thievery.

THE END

Proceeding to Day Seventeen

On Day Seventeen, you wake up alone again. You wonder what mayhem Baby has gotten into.

You wonder if the Christmas tree is still standing.

To your surprise, it is. You go to the advent calendar and open the seventeenth door. Inside is a little pile of tangled yarn.

You swear and run for your closet where you’ve stored the gifts for your parents. The mittens that you made for your mom—that took months to get right, thanks to a pattern that may or may not have been written by AI—lie completely deconstructed and strewn across the floor.

“No!” you wail, falling to your knees. Baby peeks out from the depths of the closet. Your first instinct is to shout at it. But you don’t seem to have the energy to do that.

Between your friend leaving you this beast and the advent calendar seemingly determined to ruin your life, the whole month of December has been exhausting.

🎁

Knit some mittens.

Try to get rid of the cat.

Making It to the Halfway Point

“Halfway there!” you crow as you bound into the living room on December twelfth and point at the advent calendar. “Do your worst!”

The advent calendar just sits there.

You might be starting to lose it.

When you open the twelfth door, you find something soft and knitted smushed inside. When you pull it out, you realize it’s two tiny pairs of baby booties.

“Oh, hell, no,” you say, and shove them back into their compartment.

Five minutes later, your phone rings.

🎄

Answer your phone.

Bracing Yourself for Day Fifteen

You’re still feeling a little disappointed when you wake up on Day Fifteen and realize you won’t get to have fun at a fancy banquet because you have to take care of your new cat. Baby is curled up on your bed—which you definitely did not give permission for—but you decide to pick your battles.

When you open the fifteenth door, you find what looks like a tiny genie’s lamp. Your heart stutters… and then you realize that it’s not that at all. It’s just a gravy boat.

“Oh, crap,” you say, remembering that you told your mom that you were going to let her know about your Christmas dinner plans last week. You grab your phone and call her.

“Hi,” she says when she answers. She sounds really distracted.

“Sorry I forgot to call,” you say.

“Uh-huh. Grab the flour for me.”

“Huh?”

“Not you,” she says. “Your father. I’m baking cookies.”

“Right. Gingerbread men?”

“Of course. Oh, that reminds me. Are you coming for dinner on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day?”

You look over at Baby, who’s followed you into the room. “Um… can I come to both?”

“You can,” your mom says slowly. “Did your plans fall through?”

None of your plans materialized at all. Is that because of the advent calendar? “I guess,” you say at last. “But… is it okay if I bring an extra guest?”

“Of course! I’ll be sure to buy an extra big turkey.”

“Oh. They don’t eat turkey,” you say. Do cats eat turkey?

“No problem. I’ll make extra green-bean casserole.”

You’re pretty sure Baby will like green beans even less than turkey, but you don’t say anything.

🎄

Wait to open the door for Day Sixteen.

Resolving to Call the Antique Shop in the Morning

You don’t get much sleep. Even though the jackhammer has stopped, your skull still feels like it’s jangling, even when you wake up the next day.

You call the antique shop first thing.

“What the hell?” you say before the woman on the other end can even say a word.

“Let me guess. You’re the one who bought the advent calendar.”

“You could’ve warned me.”

“I did.”

You grumble. She has a point.

“Was there something you needed?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “You can tell me how long this bad luck is going to last.”

“What do you mean?”

“The bad luck you warned me about. Every day, it’s something else.”

“No,” the woman says. “I told you that if you didn’t open all the doors, you’d have bad luck.”

“Can I open all the doors now?”

“If you want to tempt fate.”

You grip your phone tighter. “What am I supposed to do?” you growl.

“Enjoy your new antique,” she says, then hangs up.

🎁

Open the door for Day Ten.

Ignore the door for Day Ten.

Waiting to Open the Door for Day Sixteen

Baby’s not on the bed when you wake up on Day Sixteen. You go to the living room to deal with the advent calendar… and notice that the side of the couch is shredded.

“Cat!” you shout, refusing to use the foul creature’s actual name. There’s no sign of the culprit.

You wrench open the advent calendar door marked “16” and stare at what’s inside: a single piece of popcorn.

Slamming the door shut, you growl under your breath, annoyed at being reminded that you still haven’t put up the Christmas tree. You usually make a popcorn garland for it every year. You haven’t done that yet, either.

So you do it now. Before you’ve even had your morning coffee, you get the air-popper roaring. Kernels pop and fly. Some land on the kitchen floor… which brings the cat out of hiding to pounce on the fluffy white things.

“There you are,” you say. Baby ignores you and plays innocent. “Was that you who destroyed the couch? Because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

The cat continues to play with the stray kernels.

🎄

Put up the Christmas tree.

Getting Rid of the Cursed Thing

Deciding that it’s probably bad feng shui to keep something with dead skulls in your living room, you take the advent calendar down, stick it in a garbage bag, and take it out to the curb. You’re too disgusted to even contemplate doing anything else with it. The garbage truck is just pulling up. You hurry to open the lid of the wheelie bin so you can toss the bag inside.

But the mechanical arm of the truck grabs you instead of the bin and lifts you into the air. You’re still holding the bag with the advent calendar. Remembering the warning from the woman at the antique store, you throw it away from you.

It’s too late.

You plunge into the garbage truck. Nobody can hear you scream. Your last thought is one of regret.

You never should’ve bought that advent calendar.

THE END

Hoping Day Twenty-One Smells Better

On Day Twenty-One, the snow is already melting and everything looks grey and drippy outside. It’s a good day to stay inside and knit.

You do that and actually manage to finish the mittens you were working on. Only when that’s done do you dare to open the door on the advent calendar. Inside that one is a little pair of sunglasses.

“Huh,” you say, holding them out to Baby to sniff. The cat looks interested for about one second, then stalks away. “What do you think these are for?”

Just as you’re saying this, your phone rings.

🎁

Answer the phone.

Don’t answer the phone.

Moving the Christmas Tree to Higher Ground

You don’t like the way Baby is staring at the Christmas tree, so you move it onto the mantel and slide the advent calendar to one side so there’s room for both up there. When that’s done, you turn to the cat.

“If I catch you up there, you’re in big trouble.”

Baby blinks at you innocently, then starts a tongue bath.

“I don’t trust you.”

🎄

Proceed to Day Seventeen.

Opening Door Twenty

On December twentieth, it snows. You notice the change in the light as soon as you get out of bed. The air feels cold. That’s probably why Baby is still curled up like a shrimp in your blankets.

The twentieth door reveals a small piece of transparent plastic. You’re not sure what it is until you pull it out and examine it more closely. It’s an icicle. Or, at least, as close to an icicle as the advent calendar is going to get. You stick it back in the compartment and close the door.

Baby joins you for breakfast. You gaze out the window. The snowy landscape is beautiful, and the pristine white blanket outside is so tempting.

“Should I make a snowman?” you ask the cat.

🎁

Make a snowman.

Stay inside where it’s warm.

Answering the Phone

When you answer, you hear your mom’s voice on the other end.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing. Why?”

“Well, you rarely call. And I’ll be seeing you in three days…”

“About that. Your father and I won’t be hosting dinner on Christmas Day this year.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a great opportunity for a time-share down in Mexico, and we need to go down there for the seminar—”

“The seminar’s on Christmas Day?” you ask.

“No, but that was the only day I could get a flight.”

“Okay, but… couldn’t you have told me this on Christmas Eve?”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I suppose I could have.”

“This sounds like a terrible idea,” you say.

She lets out a sigh of relief. “It does, doesn’t it? But your father—” She breaks off. “That’s right,” she says brightly. “If you could bring another can of cranberry sauce, that would be great!”

“Mom, do you really need cranberry sauce?”

“No,” she says. “See you on the twenty-fourth!”

You hang up the phone and shake your head. Looks like your dad is about to waste thousands of dollars on another harebrained scheme.

🎄

Proceed to Day Twenty-Two.

Squishing the Spider

The last thing you want is for the cat to chase that spider into a nook or cranny where it’ll lurk for weeks, so you make one quick move and bring your shoe down on it. A scream fills the room. For a moment, you think it’s the spider. But it’s just the cat.

“Will you shut up?” you say. “You couldn’t have caught it, anyway.”

When you lift your foot, you see the spider—now flat—on the floor. The cat goes crazy and attacks your foot. Claws sink into your ankle. Teeth sink into your leg. You yowl and grab the cat by the scruff, but it won’t let go.

“Stop it, Baby!”

But Baby doesn’t stop. So you march to the front door, the cat clinging to your leg, and wrench it open. At the first sign of freedom, the cat releases its grip and bolts out. The sight of a diapered cat running down the street is weird. But it’s not your problem anymore.

You fetch the advent calendar and throw it out the door after the cat. The wooden case smashes on the street.

Maybe that’ll bring you bad luck.

But, really, could your luck have gotten any worse?

THE END

Moving on to Day Eighteen

Baby wakes you up on Day Eighteen with a scream. You bolt out of bed, half asleep, thinking that the sound is the unleashing of demons from hell. But it’s just a stupid cat.

“What is your problem?” you ask. Your heart is still pounding as you get up and stumble to the bathroom. You realize you left the door shut. As soon as you open it, Baby squeezes inside and hops up onto the toilet.

You’re not sure which would be worse: the cat peeing on the floor or the unearthly scream it woke you with.

Deciding it’s probably the pee, you leave the cat to its business and head for the advent calendar. Behind the eighteenth door is a little rubber duck. It’s cute, but you have no idea what it means or what it has to do with luck. It looks about the right size for Baby to choke on, so you quickly put it back in its compartment and shut the door.

The cat seems to be taking an awfully long time, so you go to check on it. The bathroom is empty… but there’s a trail of water heading for the bedroom. You find Baby lying on your pillow, soaking wet with what you can only assume is a cocktail of toilet water and cat pee.

You swear and go back to the bathroom to run a proper bath for the cat.

You should’ve guessed when you saw that rubber duck that someone would be having a bath this morning.

🎄

Brace yourself for Day Nineteen.

Sleeping Until Christmas Day

You sleep really well and wake up on Christmas morning refreshed and looking forward to the day. Baby’s not on the bed, which makes you a little nervous, so you go looking for the cat. It’s not in the bathroom. It’s not in the kitchen. It’s not in the living room. You start to worry… and your unease doesn’t get any better when you see the mantel. The little Christmas tree and the advent calendar are gone.

You swear and check the hearth, thinking the cat must’ve knocked the items over, but the stone surface is empty. There’s no broken wood case. No artificial boughs with smashed ornaments.

“Baby?” you call.

There’s no answer. Not even a “mrrow” to soothe your jangling nerves.

Puzzled, you fetch your phone, figuring that the internet might have some ideas on where to find a hiding cat. But when you see the date, you almost drop the device.

“Great,” you mutter. There’s obviously something wrong with your phone, because it says it’s November thirtieth.

The day you bought the advent calendar.

The day before your run of bad luck.

The day before the lottery draw.

This doesn’t make sense. Unless…

You look up the winning lottery numbers for December first. But they’re not up yet. Heart pounding, you pull up a note-taking app and input the six numbers you remember from the ticket.

This time around, you won’t be heading to the antique store and tempting fate with cursed decor. Today, you’re going to call up your old friend—Baby’s guardian—and tell them to be careful getting into cars for the next couple of weeks.

And then you’re going to buy a lottery ticket.

THE END

Opening the Gift

You decide to be brave and open the gift from your uncle.

It’s as bad as you thought it might be. The box, wrapped in sparkly silver paper, is filled with sex toys.

You always knew your uncle was weird, but this is just gross.

Whipping out your phone, you call him.

“What the hell?” you say when he answers.

He lets out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. You have them.”

“Yeah, I have them. What the hell were you thinking? You’re my uncle.”

“Sorry,” he says. “Those weren’t meant for you. Your cousin mixed up the boxes. He thought it might be funny.”

You tell him it’s not funny at all.

“Could you pop that box in the mail for me?” he asks.

“Um… no.”

He clears his throat. “It’s for your aunt.”

“Oh, my god!” you say. “I don’t want to know.” You hang up the phone and toss the box in the garbage. Seems like a waste of plastic and silicone, but…

Ew.

🎄

Hope Day Twenty-Three isn’t so icky.

Running to the Store for Creamer

The day before Christmas Eve, the grocery store is crazy. The other customers look deranged. You nearly get body-slammed trying to access the dairy case, so when you get close enough, you grab the nearest carton of creamer you can reach, not bothering to look at the expiry date.

Even the self-checkouts are busy, so you have to wait. Ear-splitting Christmas music is droning from somewhere above. Somebody’s red-faced kid is screaming. You think about the condom from the day before. Maybe that was a warning.

By the time you get home, it feels kind of late for coffee, but you make some anyway and absently add the creamer. When you take a sip, you almost do a spit take.

“What fresh hell is this?” you sputter. The drink tastes like toothpaste. You grab the bottle of creamer and read the label.

Limited edition peppermint vanilla.

Now the little candy cane makes sense… even if your coffee doesn’t.

🎄

Look forward to Day Twenty-Four.

Leaving the Christmas Tree Where It Is

Despite your gut feeling, you leave the Christmas tree where it is and head for your computer to do some work. To your great relief, Baby trots after you.

You manage to get some work done. A lot of work, actually. By the time you stop, it’s time for dinner. You turn and look for Baby, who had been curled up nearby. But the cat is nowhere to be seen. You hurry to the living room, a sinking feeling in your stomach.

The Christmas tree has been murdered. The branches lie strewn about the room. Some of the ornaments are broken. Others are just lying sadly on the floor. The half-munched popcorn garland is tangled around a cat that lies still in the middle of the room. For a moment, you kind of hope it’s dead. But then it yawns.

Your relief is short-lived when you spot the advent calendar lying smashed on the hearth. Looks like Baby got to that, too.

You grab your phone and look up animal shelters.

Maybe there’s some patient person out there who wants a cat for Christmas.

It sure as hell isn’t you.

THE END

Opening Door Twenty-Three

You wake to find Baby curled up on your bed, fast asleep. You have to admit, it’s not so bad. After the rough start with the diaper and the screaming, you didn’t expect to actually like having the cat around.

You get up and go straight to the advent calendar. There are only two doors that you haven’t opened yet. Maybe then your luck will change.

For the better, you hope.

You open the little door carved with the “23” and peer inside. A small candy cane leans against the side of the compartment. It’s not plastic, either—you can smell the cloying, minty scent of the thing.

Since you have no desire to eat a piece of candy that’s been in an antique advent calendar for goodness knows how long, you shut the door and head to the kitchen to make coffee.

You’re out of creamer.

🎁

Run to the store for creamer.

Drink your coffee black.

Proceeding to Day Twenty-Two

Behind Day Twenty-Two’s door is a single wrapped condom. You don’t take it out of its compartment. Instead, you stare at it, wondering what the heck it might mean. After all, the baby booties didn’t exactly herald a baby (unless you count a cat named Baby who came wearing a diaper).

“Mrrow?” Baby asks. You turn to the cat, who’s staring up at the mantel expectantly.

“Dunno,” you say. “Maybe I’m getting lucky tonight.”

“Mrrow.”

“Right. This advent calendar hasn’t exactly brought me good luck, has it?”

Baby ignores you. You shake your head and close the door on the calendar. You really hope you’re not looking at an STD in your near future.

Later that day, the mail arrives. There’s a Christmas present from your weird uncle. You feel like you might want to put on some gloves before you open it.

“What do you think, Baby?” you ask the cat, who’s sniffing the package. “Should we open it now or wait until Christmas morning?”

🎁

Open the gift.

Wait until Christmas morning.

Drinking Your Coffee Black

You put creamer on the shopping list and resign yourself to drinking your coffee black. Two days before Christmas, the store is liable to be a nightmare.

But the black coffee does what it always does: gets your bowels moving.

You make five trips to the bathroom that day and don’t get much work done. Baby watches your back-and-forth trips, bemused.

“If you need to poop,” you tell the cat, “do it while my colon’s taking a break.”

🎄

Look forward to Day Twenty-Four.

Introducing Baby to Your Dad

“Well,” your mom says, “let’s hope your father gives that cat a wide berth.”

“Why?”

“Allergies.”

“Dad’s allergic to cats?”

“Of course. Why do you think we never had one when you were growing up?”

“I thought it was the litterbox.”

Her nose wrinkles.

“Baby,” you say, setting the cat on the floor, “uses the toilet.”

Your mom looks skeptical, but you don’t feel like explaining. You head into the kitchen, where (predictably) your father is trying to sample the almost-cooked turkey. Baby trots along after you.

“Hey, Dad,” you say. But he notices the cat first, and then it’s all over.

“Hey, kitty!” he says, crouching down to greet the cat with turkey-greased fingers. Baby immediately rubs against his hand.

“Careful,” you say.

He waves his hand. “It’s fine.”

He certainly seems to be that way, so you leave him to his new friend and help your mom with dinner preparations.

🎄

Eat dinner.

Wondering What Day Fourteen Will Bring

“Well, Baby,” you say on the morning of Day Fourteen. “What do you think we’ll find?”

The cat ignores you and starts another tongue bath. You can’t really blame it. Who knows how long that dirty diaper was on there?

You open the door with the “14” carved into its surface. Warily. You remember what happened yesterday. But all that’s inside is a tiny little top hat, the sort of thing one might put on a snowman… if said snowman were an inch tall.

“What do you think that means?” you ask the cat. It pauses its bath to look up at you and blinks. “Oh, now you’re going to be quiet?”

“Mrrow,” Baby says.

“Whatever.” You close the door and ponder the little top hat.

🎄

Ponder the top hat.

Knitting Some Mittens

You still have some yarn left over, and now you know how to fix the pattern, so you get to work on a new pair of mittens. You only have a week to finish this pair.

As you’re walking to the living room where the light is better, knitting needles in hand, the cat tries to weave itself between your legs. You trip and fall.

The next thing you know, you’ve been impaled by knitting needles.

“Call nine-one-one,” you wheeze to the cat. It just blinks at you, unconcerned.

The holes in your chest are so small.

But there’s so much blood.

THE END

Putting Up the Christmas Tree

When the popcorn is popped, you get a needle and thread and sit down in the living room with the bowl. You’re temped to try to repair the couch instead, but it looks beyond hope.

“I’m going to have to get a slipcover,” you say to the cat as it strolls into the room. “Thanks to you.”

Baby sniffs the bowl of snacks, then decides they’re not that interesting when they’re not flying across the floor.

You make a garland. Then you get out your small artificial tree and set it up in the corner of the room. It doesn’t take long to string the garland on its branches and add your meagre collection of ornaments. When you’re done, you catch the cat staring at it.

“Don’t you dare,” you say.

🎁

Leave the Christmas tree where it is.

Move the Christmas tree to higher ground.

Eating Dinner

It seems that nobody else could make it for dinner. You’re kind of relieved. So it’s just the three of you… plus the cat, which your dad keeps feeding under the table.

“Stop that,” you say. “You’ll make it sick.”

“It?” your dad asks, turning to you. You shrug.

“I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“How can you not know?” your mom asks in disbelief. “Didn’t the shelter tell you? Or… the breeder?”

“I inherited the cat,” you say, and then you have to explain about your dead ex-friend, which kind of puts a damper on dinner.

Your dad keeps bending over, and you know exactly what he’s doing.

🎁

Tell your dad to stop feeding the cat.

Let your dad keep feeding the cat.

Trying to Get Rid of the Cat

Enough is enough. You search your phone for local animal shelters and call up the first one you find.

“Do you take cats?” you ask.

“Yes, but—”

“I’ve got one for you.”

“Did you find a stray?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s my cat.”

“Why are you trying to get rid of your cat the week before Christmas? Are you hosting guests with allergies?”

“Yeah. Sure. That’s it.”

“We don’t provide that sort of temporary service.”

“Maybe I don’t want it to be temporary,” you say.

There’s silence on the other end of the line.

“Will you take this cat?” you ask.

“We’re pretty full at the moment.”

“So?”

“When the shelter gets full, measures may need to be taken to free up space.”

You sigh. “You’re not a no-kill shelter, are you?”

“No. We are not.”

It looks like you’re keeping the cat. At least until you can figure out a kinder way to get rid of it.

🎄

Move on to Day Eighteen.

Giving the Ticket to the Driver as Part of the Tip

You’re pretty sure that lottery ticket isn’t worth anything. After all, what good luck has that advent calendar brought you?

So you memorize the numbers. If you’re brave enough, you’ll look them up later. When it’s time to pay for the ride home, you do that with your phone and hand over the ticket. The driver looks confused.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“What does it look like?”

“An old lottery ticket.”

“Exactly. Might be worth something.”

He shrugs and stuffs it into his pocket. You gather the cat, your ugly sweater, and the leftovers your mom sent home with you and get out of the car. As soon as you’re safely inside, you put Baby down on the floor and head to the kitchen to put the leftovers in the fridge.

Something smells… wrong.

You investigate and find a plastic lid partially melted to the stovetop. The appliance isn’t on, but it must’ve remained hot enough from heating up your soup at lunch to melt the lid, which seems to have fallen out of the drying rack and rolled across the counter.

With a deep sigh, you wonder if your bad luck will ever end.

“I followed the rules,” you tell Baby. “I opened every door on that advent calendar. Shouldn’t I get a break?”

Heart sinking, you look up the lottery numbers from the ticket you just gave away. It’s not easy, and you have to go back in the archive, but there they are.

Looks like you had all of them.

Feeling a little sick, you stare at the cat. At least it didn’t cause too many problems at your parents’ house.

Right on cue, Baby throws up again.

THE END

Waiting to See What the Cat Does

Baby stays very still. So does the spider. So do you.

Just as you’re wondering how this stalemate is going to end, the cat crouches and leaps.

The spider becomes a snack.

“Nice job,” you say. “I think.”

At least the cat’s not screaming anymore, which is something.

🎁

Change the cat’s diaper.

Let the cat go commando.

Going Grocery Shopping

You’re getting low on cat food (Baby might be small, but it eats like an elephant), so you decide to do your grocery shopping today, even though it’s not the day for it.

After closing the cat in the bathroom (you don’t trust it to roam the house while you’re not there), you head for the bus stop. The bus, when it arrives, is crowded, so you can’t grab your preferred seat at the front. There’s one seat all the way at the back, so you take it and settle in for the ten-minute ride.

About halfway into the trip, a woman gets on with a screaming baby. The baby (the human) sounds almost like Baby (the cat) did when it first arrived.

It soon becomes apparent that it smells like it, too.

Soon, passengers are retching from the stench. Someone yells at the woman to get off the bus. But she’s playing with her phone and doesn’t seem to notice. The baby’s sitting in her lap, still screaming and still stinking.

You throw yourself off the bus at the next stop, even though you’re nowhere near the grocery store. Your eyes are still watering from the diaper, and you can’t see where you’re going. You stumble off the side of the road and roll down the hill, bashing your head on a rock before landing in a water-filled ditch.

You’re dead. Baby will probably die of starvation in your bathroom.

And all because of a dirty diaper.

THE END

Pawning Off the Advent Calendar on an Unsuspecting Friend

You call up a friend.

“Merry Christmas!” you say.

“Merry Christmas.” Your friend sounds suspicious. “What’s up?”

“You like advent calendars, right?”

“I guess.”

“I have an extra one here.”

“Why?”

“I accidentally bought it.”

“Accidentally?”

This isn’t going well. You need to make a cursed advent calendar sound more appealing if you want to get rid of the thing.

“Okay. The truth? I don’t like the stuff that’s in it.”

“So throw it out.”

“I can’t.”

Your friend laughs. “Why the hell not?”

“Someone has to open all the doors. It’s bad luck not to.”

“So open all the doors.”

You fall silent. “I didn’t think of that.”

“You wouldn’t. Look, I’m busy. Talk to you later?”

“Sure,” you say, and hang up. You go to the advent calendar and stare at it, trying to decide what to do.

🎁

Write off the ladder mishap as a coincidence.

Open all the doors at once.

Resolving to Track Down the Winning Numbers in the Morning

You’re too exhausted to try tracking down those lottery numbers now, so as soon as the driver drops you off at home, you drag the cat, the sweater, and the leftovers your mom forced you to take inside and close the door with a relieved sigh. After putting the food in the fridge, you go straight to bed, not even bothering to brush your teeth.

Baby joins you.

“Thanks for not doing anything too destructive,” you tell the cat.

“Mrrow,” Baby says.

“Next time, though, don’t accept treats from Dad. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing most of the time. Obviously, cats can’t eat green-bean casserole.”

🎄

Sleep until Christmas Day.

Bracing Yourself for Day Three

Despite the rodent skeletons and mould, you keep the advent calendar. Let’s be honest. You’re still curious about all those other doors.

Also, you’re starting to worry that there might actually be something to what the woman at the antique store said. This thing is creepy, and you don’t want to tempt fate.

On December third, you pull open the next door, despite an uneasy feeling. Inside is a tiny wooden ladder that tumbles onto the mantel. You sigh, put it back, and go make breakfast.

Later, you’re halfway up the ladder stringing the exterior Christmas lights when you remember the advent calendar. Your legs begin to shake, rattling the ladder against the gutter. You climb down quickly, just as the metal pins give way and the ladder collapses with a clatter.

🎁

Pawn off the advent calendar on an unsuspecting friend.

Write off the ladder mishap as a coincidence.

Staying Inside Where It’s Warm

“It looks really cold out there,” you say aloud. Baby continues chowing down on the stinky cat food, ignoring your weather report. “I think I’ll stay inside today. Maybe we’ll turn on the fireplace.”

And you do. The day actually isn’t that bad, luck-wise.

Until the cat leaves a stinky poop in the toilet and forgets to flush.

🎄

Hope Day Twenty-One smells better.

Seeing What’s Behind Door Thirteen

Trying to ignore the crying cat, you go to the advent calendar and open the thirteenth door.

A huge spider uncurls itself from the compartment and springs out at you. With a scream, you slam the door shut, but it’s already too late. The spider lands on your shirt and starts to crawl. You swipe it away, and it goes flying onto the floor… right in front of the cat.

The cat goes silent.

The spider freezes, as if it knows it’s being watched by a predator.

🎁

Wait to see what the cat does.

Squish the spider.

Waiting Until Christmas Morning

You don’t know what your uncle might’ve sent you—and you’re not sure you want to know—but it’s not right to open Christmas presents before Christmas. So you place the present on the hearth with the rest of them, below the mantel with the Christmas tree and the advent calendar.

“No peeking,” you tell Baby. The cat blinks at you innocently.

You’re not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

🎄

Open Door Twenty-Three.

Waiting for the End

by Nissa Harlow

Staring down the terrifying white space of the end, Olive Dunn was fresh out of ideas.

The story’s denouement wasn’t going to write itself, but the storyteller had no idea how to write it, either. Her compulsive need for resolution haunted her, even as she stepped away from the laptop with its insistently blinking text-insertion point and tried to search for inspiration in distraction.

Since her birthday was the next day, she resolved to bake herself a batch of birthday cupcakes. She mulled and mused as she mixed and meted, then set the timer, trying to decide the direction of her story’s final act. But the resolution remained elusive, and by the time the cupcakes were cooling on their rack, she was no further ahead than she had been before.

As the sugary lemon scent swirled about the apartment, she went back to the laptop and read the last paragraph she’d written. That didn’t dislodge any stuck ideas, so she went back a little further and reread some more. Still nothing. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the scenes playing like a movie. The narrative petered out, leaving the characters frozen in limbo.

“But how does it end?” she muttered, opening her eyes to glare at the insertion point that was still blinking patiently, waiting for her to fill the rest of the screen. The quiet apartment didn’t offer any answers. Beyond the windows, the sun waned as it sank into an autumn glow, painting the sky in shades of spice and gunmetal grey. She looked over at the cooling cupcakes, a thought nibbling at the corners of her consciousness.

No birthday cupcakes are complete without candles.

She went to the junk drawer, where she knew there to be a box of the tiny wax sticks. Sure enough, there they were… but, as she picked up the box, she felt the overly loose rattle. Opening the box revealed two lonely candles, and one of them was little more than a stub. That wouldn’t do at all.

The cupcakes were still warm and would be for a while yet. So Olive put on her coat and grabbed her keys from the bowl beside the door. Then she left, savouring one last inhale on her way out.

Somebody had taped a piece of paper that read DO NOT USE on the elevator. Figuring that was probably done for a good reason, she opted for the stairs. Luckily, she only lived on the fourth floor, so the descent wasn’t too arduous. She was soon strolling across the lobby. Standing (or, rather, straddling a chair) between her and freedom was Wallace, the neighbour who lived directly below her. His white button-up shirt was mismatched with a pair of stained sweatpants, which made her think he’d just gotten home from work and had been interrupted while changing into his comfy clothes. What didn’t seem so comfy was the handgun wedged into the back of his waistband (and perhaps also into his buttcrack). At the sound of her footsteps, he twisted around to look.

“Olive,” he said.

“Wallace,” she replied.

“How’s your story going?”

“I can’t seem to think of an ending.”

“Run out of ideas?”

The problem was actually too many ideas. Too many possibilities. But Wallace was the least creative creature that Olive had ever encountered, so she didn’t try to explain. Instead, she nodded and headed for the door. Wallace sprang to his feet, awkwardly, the chair legs screeching on the smooth floor, and blocked her path.

“You can’t go out there,” he said.

Olive frowned. “I’m fairly certain I can.”

Wallace shook his head. “No. Recommendations are to stay inside.”

“Whose recommendations?”

“Haven’t you been keeping up with the news?”

“I don’t have a TV.”

“You have a computer, don’t you? And access to the internet?”

“Yes.”

“So you should know…”

Olive sighed. She hated it when people didn’t finish their sentences. “I need to go to the store.”

Wallace shook his head. “Should’ve stocked up on supplies when you had the chance. The blackout will be starting soon.”

“What blackout? Aren’t those usually spontaneous?”

“Not this time. Power’s going off for the night.”

“Why?”

He stared at her as if he were examining an interesting specimen in a zoo. “You haven’t heard.”

“I’ve heard plenty of things in my life,” she said, starting to become annoyed. “What’s going on, Wallace?”

“They’re coming.”

She waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, she had to prompt him. “Who?”

“Them.”

“Who’s that?”

“We don’t know, exactly. But They come in the dark.”

“So why shut off the lights?”

“Light attracts Them.”

“Then why don’t They come during the day?”

“Light in the darkness attracts Them,” he clarified. He held up his hands. “That’s just what we’ve been told.”

“But you don’t know what They are.”

“No.”

“What do They do that’s so awful that we need to live in the shadows?”

“Not shadows,” he said. “Darkness. If you have shadows, there’s light to cast them.”

She sighed. “What do They do, Wallace?”

He pointed toward the stairs. “Go back to your apartment and look it up. Now, while you still can.”

“No. I’m going out.” She tried to step around him, but he sidestepped and blocked her. “Please,” she said. “You’re letting some silly stories make you paranoid. Shadows can’t hurt you.”

“Then why are clusters of bodies being found after every blackout?”

She looked up at him with a frown. There was fear in his eyes. Not panic, though. Something far more resigned. “Blackouts?” she said. “Plural?”

“In other towns. Other cities. When They approach, the power is shut off. It’s for our own good.”

“It doesn’t sound like it works, if there are bodies everywhere.”

“There are twice as many deaths where the power is left on.”

In spite of herself, she shuddered. But she could also sniff out a fear-fuelled urban legend at fifty paces. Shaking her head, she tried to edge around the man blocking the door. He still wouldn’t let her pass.

“If you go out there,” he said, “I won’t let you back in.”

“Don’t be silly, Wallace. Of course you will.”

“This will be the end of you.”

She nodded. “Good. At least something will have one.”

“Are you willing to risk everything for a silly errand?”

“It’s not silly,” she said. “And I’ll be fine. If there’s any trouble, I’m armed.” She lifted her keys. There were only three on the keychain: one for the building, one for her apartment, and one for her storage unit a few blocks away. Tucked amongst the brass pieces was a battered piece of plastic in the form of a green cocktail sword, a reminder of an otherwise-lovely date with a man sporting obvious commitment issues. (He’d ghosted her without a word of explanation, which she’d found more unsatisfying than truly heartbreaking.) Pinching the sword’s hilt between her thumb and forefinger, she jabbed the point toward Wallace’s chest. His expression darkened.

“This isn’t a joke, Olive.”

“Who’s laughing?”

They stared at each other for a few moments. Olive could see something in Wallace’s expression, though she couldn’t quite place it. He seemed to want to argue with her some more. At the same time, he was tired of arguing. When she made one last attempt to get around him, he let her pass. Before the door closed behind her, she heard the man sit down again, so hard that the chair scraped against the floor.

Olive hadn’t left her apartment in days. Weeks, now that she thought about it. Even so, she knew that the city around her was different. It smelled different. It took a few blocks of walking before she realized why. Without vehicles on the streets, belching exhaust and dripping various fluids, the balance of scents had changed. Now she smelled petrichor from the morning’s rain. Something fresh and floral from the planter on a nearby stoop. What she didn’t smell was somewhat disappointing, but understandable. With all the restaurants closed, there were no tantalizing aromas to make her mouth water.

Other businesses—from insurance offices to clothing boutiques—were closed, too, storefronts darkened. It looked like she wasn’t going to be able to buy any candles; her birthday cupcakes would remain annoyingly unfinished. As she explored the deserted streets, she paused in front of a bookstore and stared enviously at the window display of completed stories. But the lighting was bad, and she couldn’t see much past the shadows within. She continued on.

After about half an hour, she circled back and headed for home. Her stomach growled, and she thought of the leftover pizza waiting for her in the fridge. Cheese and green peppers only, thank you very much. She didn’t understand why she always had to get the restaurant to hold the olives. She understood even less why people thought she should like the things. After all, as her mother had always said, she was named after the tree… not the nasty little fruits that fell out of its branches.

The dregs of sunset had disappeared in the west by the time she got back to her building, and she’d never seen the city so dark. Even the hospital a few blocks away, which usually shone like a beacon, had seemingly disappeared. It would’ve been more than irresponsible to shut off the power there, so she assumed they were blocking out the windows somehow.

Everyone seemed to understand what was coming except her.

She pulled her keys out of her pocket and stepped up to the door. But before she could insert the key in the lock, the door swung open and she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun. Her gaze shifted to the person behind it.

“Wallace,” she said, “what are you doing?”

“I told you. You’re not coming back in here.”

“You can’t block me from my own home.”

“Yes, I can. The building manager appointed me to keep out the danger.”

“You can’t keep me out of an apartment that I own.”

Wallace took a step forward. Olive took a step back, trying to keep as much space between her and the gun as she could.

“I warned you,” the man said.

“What’s the problem? You know me, Wallace.”

“I know Olive.”

“I am Olive.”

“Are you?”

The nonsensical exchange elicited a burst of incredulous laughter. “What’s wrong with you? Let me in.”

“No.”

She took another step back, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“And don’t think about trying the back entrance,” he said. “That’s guarded, too.”

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.” He twitched the gun. “Go.”

“Where am I supposed to go?”

“I don’t care. That’s not my problem.” He stepped back into the darkened lobby and pulled the door closed behind him with a click of finality.

“Wallace!”

The door remained closed. The street remained dark. Olive held her breath, listening. All she could hear were a few dead leaves skittering across the pavement.

At least, she hoped that was what she heard.

She kept her keys in one hand as she stormed down the sidewalk, aimless in her fury. The birthday cupcakes were going to spoil on their cooling rack. Without candles, no less! Her leftover pizza—which she’d been looking forward to—would go moldy. If she suddenly became inspired to finish her story, she would have no way to do so. She’d forget the perfect ending and always know that it was right there and Wallace had prevented her from completing what might’ve been her best story ever.

Perhaps worst of all, though, was the knowledge that she was stepping into the unknown, and she had no idea how the night was going to end. Instead of curling up in her apartment with a slice of pizza, a flashlight, and a book, she would be wandering a darkened city while something—she wasn’t sure exactly what—stalked its citizens.

Her feet drove her down dark streets and through alleyways that should’ve been even darker but weren’t. A crescent moon hung in the cloud-smeared sky, casting a pitiful glow onto the sidewalks, bright enough to create shadows but not bright enough to make her feel safe. Her elbow bashed a pole that she didn’t see. She nearly fell as she stumbled off a curb and into the street. The only upside was that there was no traffic to run her down.

Before long, Olive found herself standing in front of what she was able to make out as the library. Its windows and door were dark, just like every other building. Probably locked, too. But she went and tried the door, anyway. To her surprise, it yielded at her yank.

Just to be safe, she locked it behind her. Whoever They were—if They even existed—she didn’t want to make things too easy for Them.

The smell of old books and new carpet hit her first. Then, as the silence swallowed her ears, she let out a relieved breath. She couldn’t see anything, but she knew the place well. If she had to spend the night in a library while waiting for the safety of sunrise… well, there were worse things. Very carefully, she stepped forward, reaching out for the security gates that had screamed at her one too many times. Luckily, the power cut had silenced them. Not that she was carrying anything that would’ve triggered their cries. As her left hand hit the hard plastic curve of the nearest gate, she steeled herself to move into the darkness.

Her first stop was usually the elevator that led up to the second floor and the stacks where her favourite books were shelved. But since the elevator would be out of commission and she really didn’t feel like trying to navigate stairs in the retina-sucking black, she veered to the left and headed for the New Releases section. It was near the windows, and she hoped she’d be able to see something. But there simply wasn’t enough moonlight. So she felt her way forward until she hit a shelf. She heard a couple of books fall, but since she had no idea where they were supposed to go, she left them. Holding the edge of the shelf for balance in the dizzying dark, she sank to the ground.

To wait. To think, maybe. The uncertainty of the situation itched like a rash, and Olive forced herself to think logically. She was as safe as she could hope to be. The library was silent, without even the whispered hum of the heating system. All she had to do was wait until morning. Maybe Wallace would be more inclined to listen to reason in the daylight.

She figured she might as well take the opportunity to brainstorm endings for her story. What better place to do so than a silenced library? But whether it was the eerie setting or her own anxiety, something kept her mind from travelling down any one path. Her thoughts circled.

“But how does it end?” she dared to whisper. No answer came out of the darkness. Pulling her coat more tightly around her, she grasped her keys in one hand, keeping the largest one at the ready. She didn’t know if They—whoever They were—would cower in the face of a two-inch brass key, but it was the only potential defensive weapon she had.

She must have nodded off, because when she opened her eyes, there was a strange song in her head and echoes of luminescent beings dancing on the edges of memory: a dream, and one that she would’ve liked to remember, since it seemed odd enough to make good fiction fodder. But then she realized what had awoken her. The slithering sound of jacket sleeves—synthetic and cold—whispered into the darkness. She stood up. The movement caused the other keys to jingle. She quickly enclosed the lot in her fist, but it was already too late.

“I know you’re there,” a voice said. It was young. Feminine. Carrying a slight edge of annoyance.

“I know you’re there, too,” Olive said. The voice chuckled, and a point of bluish-white light flared out of the darkness. A phone’s flash, most likely. Olive took a step back. “Turn that off,” she said.

“It’s fine. We’re in a library.”

“So?”

“Why would They come into a library?” The voice moved closer. Olive lifted her fist with the keys. But then the light shifted, illuminating the owner of the voice.

“What are you doing in here?” Olive demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re just a kid.”

The girl smirked, dark-painted lips twisting. The eyeliner that ringed her eyes aged her, but even so, Olive could tell that she was only around thirteen. “I’m not old enough to go to the library?”

“You’re not old enough to be on your own when danger is on its way.”

The girl took a few quick steps forward until she stood directly in front of Olive, causing the woman to catch an intense gaze before the girl swung the phone’s light away from her face. “I’m safe here,” she said. “Unless you’re dangerous. Are you?”

“No,” Olive said.

“Well, then, we’re fine. What’s your name?”

“Olive Dunn. What’s yours?”

“Olive Dunn,” the girl repeated, ignoring the question. “That sounds familiar.”

“Maybe you’ve read something I’ve written.”

“You write stories?”

“I try to.”

The girl snorted. “You try to?”

“Coming up with an ending isn’t as easy as you’d think.”

“Why not? They’re all there.” The light swept away, bobbing in the darkness as the girl walked, holding the phone out to one side. The odd comment drew Olive after her, almost as if she’d been snagged with a hook.

“They’re all there?” she repeated.

“Yeah. Have you ever heard of Schrödinger’s cat?”

“In passing.”

“Do you know its name?”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Olive said, at which the girl laughed.

“Good. You’re smart.”

Not smart enough to understand what you’re getting at, Olive thought. She kept following the light as it bounced gently ahead.

“Endings are like the cat,” the girl went on, “except there are more than the usual two options. Until you write one of those endings down, they all exist. They’re all possible.”

“But that’s the problem,” Olive said. “I can’t decide.”

“So don’t write an ending.”

Olive shuddered. “Most readers don’t like that. I wouldn’t like that, for that matter.”

The girl clucked her tongue. “Needing an ending shows a lack of imagination.”

“No, it shows a need for completion. Endings are part of my job.”

The girl’s voice laughed out of the darkness. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Uncertainty. And the things that cause it.”

“Like Them?”

“Maybe,” Olive said.

“Do you even know what They are?”

“Something that could cause our end.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you know what They are?” Olive asked.

“Of course.”

“What are They, then?”

“What are you?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Everything has a shadow, Olive.”

“So They’re shadows?”

“What do you need for a shadow to exist?”

“Light,” Olive said slowly. She still wasn’t sure what the girl was getting at. The point of illumination stopped as her new acquaintance turned to face her.

“Light,” the girl whispered, her face lit up eerily from below. “They need it.”

Something about those words made Olive shudder.

“They find you,” the girl went on, “by your light. All of you have it. And They need it to survive.”

“Because They’re shadows?”

“Of course. They have no light of their own. So They crave it. They seek it. And then They take it.”

Olive shook her head slowly.

“Daylight makes it harder to see your glow,” the girl said. “So They come at night, drawn by the little lights of your world that you use to feel safe.”

“What happens when They take your light?” Olive asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

“They survive.”

“And we don’t.”

“Some do. They have other uses for you.”

Olive’s mind fell back to Wallace and his insistence on keeping her out of the building, almost as if he thought she were carrying a deadly disease.

Or was it something else he was worried about?

The girl started walking again. Olive followed in silence until the light stopped once more. Her guide didn’t turn, but moved the phone, illuminating a table with a splayed-open book.

“That’s not good for the spine,” Olive said.

“Have you read it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have a look.”

Olive pushed her now-sweaty keys into her pocket before reaching out. Her hand shook as she picked up the book and turned it over. It was open to the beginning of what looked like a short story called “Waiting for the End.”

“Well?” the girl said. “Who’s the author?”

Olive shook her head as she read the byline. “Impossible.”

“That’s a weird name. Here,” the girl said, handing Olive the heavy phone. As the light reflected off the page, Olive saw the words more clearly. But they still didn’t make any sense:

“I think,” the girl said, interrupting what was probably the weirdest moment of Olive’s life, “that you may have stumbled across Schrödinger’s ending.”

“But… this isn’t a story in some book. This is my life.”

“Those have endings, too.” The girl’s voice slipped sideways, and Olive felt dizzy for a moment. Aiming the phone in the girl’s direction only caused a doubling effect as the light bounced back from the windows. Olive quickly lowered it to the floor.

“No,” she said. “This is reality. It’s my story. I’m living it. I get to choose how it unfolds. I get to choose how it ends.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“But it’s already written there in that book. If you didn’t write it… someone else must have.” The voice sounded distant. There was a click, and Olive spotted the glowing flame near the windows. For a moment, she thought it was a birthday candle (which would have been odd, though fitting), but then she realized it was a lighter, and that was far more terrifying. Little lights that you use to feel safe.

“What are you doing?” Olive cried. “Turn that off! You’ll draw Them here!”

“The ending is already written, Olive Dunn.” The flickering glow lit the girl’s expression, menacing in its neutrality. “What’s going to happen was always going to happen.”

Olive looked at the phone in one hand. She looked at the book in the other. Awkwardly, she tried to flip through the pages and, as she did, she caught glimpses of her last few hours: going out to find birthday candles, being blocked by Wallace and his gun, wandering the streets as the night grew dark, entering the library, meeting the girl…

A flap of shadow slapped into Olive’s side, causing her to shriek and drop the book into the darkness. Laughter echoed around her as she fell to her knees, searching. But, even though she still had the phone and its light, she couldn’t find the book.

“You’re all so bright,” the girl’s voice said. “All of you, bright as stars. But you, Olive Dunn, may be the brightest of them all.” The sound of tearing paper filled the room.

“Why?” Olive wailed.

“Because you know every ending.”

But she didn’t. And, as she saw the flame flicker against the loose pages the girl held in front of her, she knew there was one ending that would stay devastatingly out of reach.

“But how does it end?” Olive cried. “Tell me! You have to tell me!”

The curl and crackle of paper filled the room as the flames sang into the dark.

Then They came.

Olive understood that They’d been there all along.

Waiting for the end.

I’ve been writing quite a few tiny micro fiction pieces based on prompts here on Substack. Most are inspired by prompts from aka The Fiction Dealer and of Your Path to Publication. I’ve been sharing these in my Notes, but I thought it would be handy to have them all linked in one place.

I’m also including links to all my 100-word stories that I’ve shared as part of The Diurnal Drabble Dare 2025, just so they’re easier to find. These stories are highlighted in bold.

Here we go! (Stories are listed in reverse order, from newest to oldest.)

July 2026

08 July 2026: “Tea Time”

08 July 2026: “Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunity”

08 July 2026: “Tiptoes”

June 2026

24 June 2026: “When Pigs Fly”

24 June 2026: “Keep Playing”

24 June 2026: “One Perilous Condiment”

10 June 2026: “For the Best”

10 June 2026: “The Collection”

10 June 2026: “Locked”

01 June 2026: “Shells and Wings”

May 2026

27 May 2026: “Pointless”

27 May 2026: “Modesty”

27 May 2026: “Postcard of Doom”

13 May 2026: “Perspective”

13 May 2026: “File Not Found”

13 May 2026: “Upside Down”

April 2026

29 April 2026: “The Next Attempt”

29 April 2026: “Hairy Witness”

29 April 2026: “Give Me a Hand”

15 April 2026: “Strange Expectations”

15 April 2026: “Another Rejection”

15 April 2026: “Nobody Cares”

March 2026

26 March 2026: “If You Know, You Know”

February 2026

25 February 2026: “Guardians of the Wood”

January 2026

31 January 2026: “An Air of Knowing”

05 January 2026: “The Talk of the Hollow”

December 2025

31 December 2025: “Manifest”

31 December 2025: “It’s Tradition”

24 December 2025: “Ugly”

17 December 2025: “How to Make a Brat”

10 December 2025: “Lost for Words”

08 December 2025: “Regina Imaginaria”

03 December 2025: “Daredevil”

01 December 2025: “What Happens in December Stays in December”

November 2025

26 November 2025: “The Pain of Denial”

19 November 2025: “The Happiest Hour”

12 November 2025: “Chaos”

05 November 2025: “Weaponized Hors d’Oeuvres”

October 2025

31 October 2025: “Break and Exit”

30 October 2025: “Flushed”

29 October 2025: “Bloody Stupid”

29 October 2025: “Reality TV”

27 October 2025: “Alone”

26 October 2025: “It’s Your Funeral”

25 October 2025: “Soothe the Grass”

24 October 2025: “Rumble”

22 October 2025: “Proving Her Point”

21 October 2025: “Never Fall Asleep”

20 October 2025: “Don’t Touch”

18 October 2025: “Prairie Madness”

15 October 2025: “Silvered Surface”

15 October 2025: “Bad Luck Potluck”

13 October 2025: “All That Glitters Under the Moon”

12 October 2025: “The Rhyming Mistake”

11 October 2025: “Ingress Unlocked”

10 October 2025: “Buzz”

09 October 2025: “Unseen”

09 October 2025: “Unexpected Tableau”

08 October 2025: “On the Nose”

07 October 2025: “Coverage”

06 October 2025: “Art Imitates Life”

05 October 2025: “Grave Danger”

04 October 2025: “Doug”

03 October 2025: “A Defiant Melody”

02 October 2025: “Everything’s Dead”

01 October 2025: “Love Story”

01 October 2025: “The New Necromancer” (Chapter 1 of “Phil the Necromancer”; you can continue the story from this link)

September 2025

29 September 2025: “The Stalker”

24 September 2025: “In That Case… Never Mind”

17 September 2025: “Too Small”

10 September 2025: “The Neighbours Are Afraid of Us Now”

08 September 2025: “Woodland Games”

03 September 2025: “In the Kitchen”

02 September 2025: “Hindsight”

August 2025

27 August 2025: “Underestimated”

25 August 2025: “Limited Time”

20 August 2025: “Dexterity”

13 August 2025: “Sunstroke”

11 August 2025: “Meeting Mnemosyne”

11 August 2025: “The Zombie Garden”

06 August 2025: “Everyone’s a Critic”

July 2025

30 July 2025: “The Lesson”

28 July 2025: “Vanilla Vertigo”

23 July 2025: “A Sticky Equation”

21 July 2025: “A Surprising Turn of Events”

16 July 2025: “Worms Taste the Best”

14 July 2025: “A New Recipe”

09 July 2025: “Fireworks”

07 July 2025: “Pandora’s Dream”

02 July 2025: “A Tragic End for the Dessert”

June 2025

30 June 2025: “In Silence”

27 June 2025: “The Only Certain Thing”

25 June 2025: “To the Edge of the Pool and Back”

24 June 2025: “Warm Hearts”

24 June 2025: “Bad Brother”

19 June 2025: “The Last Reunion”

18 June 2025: “One Hell of a Party”

12 June 2025: “The Depths of Vanity”

11 June 2025: “Try Harder”

05 June 2025: “The Skies Aren’t Big Enough for the Both of Us”

04 June 2025: “Mystery Meat”

May 2025

30 May 2025: “A Long Way From Home”

29 May 2025: “A Gift From Above”

28 May 2025: “Go”

27 May 2025: “Customer Service”

26 May 2025: “Memories in the Morgue”

21 May 2025: “He Really Likes Cookies”

16 May 2025: “Worse Ways to Go”

14 May 2025: “So Bold”

12 May 2025: “Always Follow His Instructions”

09 May 2025: “Ignorance Is Bliss”

08 May 2025: “Safe Enough”

07 May 2025: “Not Mature Yet”

07 May 2025: “Better Than Toilet Water”

06 May 2025: “Yesteryear”

03 May 2025: “Wait Thirty Minutes Before Teleporting”

02 May 2025: “A Very Bad Afternoon for Someone”

01 May 2025: “Had I Known”

April 2025

30 April 2025: “Veneer of Sweetness”

30 April 2025: “The Scary Version”

25 April 2025: “You Are What You Eat”

25 April 2025: “Always Double Check”

24 April 2025: “Outage Outrage”

24 April 2025: “Straight Back to the Dealership”

23 April 2025: “Five-Second Rule”

22 April 2025: “Longing for Daybreak”

20 April 2025: “I Need Your Help”

19 April 2025: “Vlad’s Secret”

18 April 2025: “Line of Fire”

16 April 2025: “It’s Only Me”

16 April 2025: “A Step Too Far”

15 April 2025: “Flash of Brilliance”

11 April 2025: “Small But Mighty”

11 April 2025: “Sore Loser”

10 April 2025: “Too Much”

09 April 2025: “How About Those Profits?”

09 April 2025: “He’ll Cry If He Wants To”

08 April 2025: “The Battle of Ghrelin”

07 April 2025: “Itchy”

04 April 2025: “Close Call”

04 April 2025: “Mother of Darkness”

03 April 2025: “The Haunting Hodophile”

02 April 2025: “Almost Like the Real Thing”

02 April 2025: “Something’s Missing”

March 2025

30 March 2025: “Stupid Head”

28 March 2025: “Pixels and Dopamine”

28 March 2025: “Tang of Sadness”

26 March 2025: “A Nocturnal Visitor”

26 March 2025": “I Hate Raisins”

25 March 2025: “Acquittal”

24 March 2025: “Official Recognition”

21 March 2025: “The Sacrifice”

20 March 2025: “Burned Into Memory”

19 March 2025: “The Unending Sorrow of the Thwarted Sanguine”

19 March 2025: “It’s a Mystery”

18 March 2025: “Perpetual Promises”

17 March 2025: “The Promise”

14 March 2025: “A Defiant Melody”

14 March 2025: “Age Gap”

13 March 2025: “A Little War Is a Little Loud”

12 March 2025: “Lighting Her Way”

12 March 2025: “Their Dark Magic”

11 March 2025: “Five Years On, Six Feet Apart”

10 March 2025: “Willow”

08 March 2025: “Feign to Feast”

07 March 2025: “A Frustrated Threat”

07 March 2025: “The Forbidden Necessary”

06 March 2025: “We Thought You Should Know”

05 March 2025: “If You Like That Sort of Thing”

05 March 2025: “That’s Nuts!”

04 March 2025: “The Best Night of Our Lives”

03 March 2025: “From the Sidelines”

February 2025

28 February 2025: “Veiled Threat”

26 February 2025: “Morning Routine”

21 February 2025: “The Tourist”

19 February 2025: “Not Included”

17 February 2025: “Doctor Firedoom and the Tricycle of Destiny”

15 February 2025: “Patience”

14 February 2025: “One Shot”

13 February 2025: “The Ironic Bouquet”

12 February 2025: “Above the Chamber Door”

12 February 2025: “A Well-Chosen Homonym”

11 February 2025: “For Their Safety”

10 February 2025: “Does the Dreamer Know?”

08 February 2025: “Last Days of the Reign of Fire”

07 February 2025: “We All Rot in Our Own Way”

06 February 2025: “Resistance”

05 February 2025: “You See Them at Sunset”

05 February 2025: “Backwards”

04 February 2025: “Swirl Versus Slice: The Final Battle”

03 February 2025: “Your Turn”

01 February 2025: “Second Draft”

January 2025

31 January 2025: “Way Too Short”

30 January 2025: “Mornings Are Bad Enough”

29 January 2025: “Stock Tips”

28 January 2025: “Stay Still”

27 January 2025: “The Club”

26 January 2025: “The Borealis Incursion”

24 January 2025: “Soulmates”

23 January 2025: “A Complete Breakfast”

22 January 2025: “Exhale”

22 January 2025: “Take the Hint”

21 January 2025: “Homecoming”

20 January 2025: “The Summer Star”

15 January 2025: “A Trust No Longer Forgotten”

08 January 2025: “The Last Nap”

Subscribe now

For the last few months, I’ve been entering the Furious Fiction contest run by the Australian Writers’ Centre. Each month, writers are given a prompt and have a couple of days to write a flash fiction piece of 500 words or less.

December marks the first time one of my stories has been acknowledged! It didn’t make the shortlist and get published on their site… but it did make the longlist, which accounts for around 10-15% of all the entries they receive.

Since this is a holiday story, I thought I’d share it here. Just be forewarned: this is not your typical holiday tale full of coziness and cookies…

Without further ado, I bring you:

Holly Raises the Stakes

’Twas the night before Christmas. You’ve heard this one, right?

We’ve all heard the tale of this strange Yuletide night

When a sprightly old man with a spirit of giving

Squeezes down chimneys with gifts for the living.

But not everyone found the season so jolly.

And this was the case for our character, Holly.

She sat on the rug in the shade of the tree

With a small silver rifle at rest on her knee.

When Santa arrived in a shower of soot,

Our Holly reloaded and shot at his foot.

“Great goblins!” he cried as he jumped up and down.

His pain turned to sadness, his wince to a frown.

“What are you doing?” he asked the small child

Who glared with a fierceness the inverse of mild.

She lifted the rifle to aim at his head.

“You’re going to help me,” the scary child said.

Old Santa regarded the naughty wee thing.

Then he reached for his bag and said, “What did I bring?”

“There’s nothing in there that I want or I need.”

“Then how can I help you?” the elder elf plea’d.

“I blame only you, for my puppy is dead.

“And if you don’t help me, I’ll blow up your head.”

“But how?” Santa cried. “No, I wouldn’t cause harm.

“Perhaps your dear doggy was moved to a farm.”

“No,” Holly said. “He was hit by your sleigh.

“Three hundred and sixty-five sleeps from today.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, for this accident vile.

“But hitting and running? It isn’t my style.

“Your poor little puppy was hit by a car.

“Your parents are liars. Their stories, they scar.”

Our Holly sat seething. She lowered the rifle.

“You’re still going to help me. It is but a trifle.

“You’ll bring back my puppy. He’ll live once again.

“You’ll punish those liars with vigour and then

“When everything’s done and you’ve parlayed the truth

“I want you to give me some coins for my tooth.”

“Coins?” Santa sputtered. “But I’m no tooth fairy.

“I’m a symbol of Christmas. I’m jolly. I’m merry.”

“You’ll do as I say,” Holly said with a scowl.

“Or I’ll poison your reindeer with carrots so foul.”

The elderly elf swiped the sweat from his head.

“You seem very naughty,” old Santa Claus said.

Against the backdrop of the sparkling tree,

The child glowed with menace and horrible glee.

The orange of carrots then caught Santa’s eye.

He leaped for the plate while the child made a cry.

As he turned with a carrot held up like a stake,

He saw the small creature strike out like a snake.

Her fangs sank in deep to the skin of his wrist.

And Santa Claus suddenly fathomed the gist.

“Your venom can’t hurt me,” the old elf opined.

“But a carrot can take out the vampiric kind.”

So he stabbed little Holly with that reindeer snack…

And that was the end of the Yuletide attack.

©2024 Nissa Harlow