by The Awethors
I let out a heavy sigh. “Fine.” Owen counted down the seconds and at midnight we sent the bright orbs up into the air. I relaxed and imagined myself spelling out each letter and it actually worked. In the sky above us, our Lights spelled out “Happy New Year”.
Owen threw his arm around me and smiled, “Told you it would work, silly. Behold, the year of the Light Keepers.” As I watched the message fade and our Lights returned to rest above our heads, warmth filled my heart. I was thankful that whatever was to come in the New Year, I wouldn’t have to face it alone.
Malic Saves Christmas
J.B. Taylor
Chapter 1
The Darkness
Christmas comes but once a year.
When it does the children cheer and we all hold dear, that child-like awe and atmosphere.
Malic blinked as the words, he had heard a group of carolers singing as Christmas edged closer, faded in his mind like the volume of a stereo being turned down. He shook his head and focused on what he could see of Little Hempshire from his perch on the edge of a cliff. Visibility was hampered by the darkness hanging over the village like a morbid cloud.
The black cloud, as Malic referred to it as, brought with it a great sadness that overwhelmed the people of Little Hempshire. No one laughed anymore. No one smiled. All they could do was cry, and it had been that way sense mid-December.
Malic stood and wrapped his cloak tighter about his person. His short black hair stood up and bent to the side in the cold breeze. His cheeks were the color of roses. The night was deepening, the cold growing sharper by the moment. “I’m going to save Christmas,” he muttered with certainty. Turning he tripped and fell. “I need to stop doing that,” he muttered, as he worked himself back onto his feet. He dusted off the front of his cloak.
Malic knew he wasn’t a hero. Never had been and never would be. He was barely a wizard, having only just advanced through Little Hempshire’s school of Sorcery to earn his very own wand. During school his only good marks came from wand wielding and history of witchcraft classes. He knew holding a stick and boring people about, oh let’s say, the elves invasion of Glasgow 1602 wouldn’t do him any good, but he was determined to save Christmas.
Chapter 2
Malic and the Strange Man
A small group was cluttered around a man inside a restaurant. He was coughing and grabbing at his throat, his face red. He was choking Malic realized, as he happened to glance inside the restaurant as he passed. The sight was bizarre. The man was choking violently, yet crying hysterically at the same time. Regardless, he rushed inside.
Malic had barely eclipsed the frame of the door when his feet flew out from under him and he landed on his back. “Bloody hell,” he moaned, and got to his feet. His back hurt. No one looked at him, each were too busy crying around the choking man. “Don’t worry,” he barked at them, “I’m fine!”
The word fine had barely left his mouth when the choking man swallowed whatever was hampering him before falling out of his chair.
“Waste of damn time,” Malic said, and walked carefully out of the restaurant. He had barely shadowed the door when he spotted a curious man. The man wore a suit of black, with black boots and a black top hat. In one hand was a cane of what looked like ivory, in the other was a wand of the deepest, almost blood-red. But that wasn’t what made him curious. The man was laughing. Even he, who hadn’t been affected by the sadness, ever laughed. It was like he didn’t know how to anymore.
“You sir,” Malic found himself shouting, “stop right there!”
The strange man slashed his wand through the air in Malic’s direction. “Haava!” he yelled. A blue spell shot in his direction forcing him to duck out of the way. The spell shattered the glass, and struck the once choking man as he managed to find his feet. He gave a yelp of surprise as a gash opened across his shoulder with enough force to launch him off his feet.
Malic flicked his wand in the direction of the strange man. “Septa Felda!” he yelled, and from his wand shot a green spell, that immediately darted right, curved upward and rocketed into the nights sky as if desperate to go anywhere but in the direction he intended it to.
“Septa Felda!” Malic tried again. This time his spell shot forward, bright green and speeding faster than a bullet. The strange man jumped and grabbed at his ass cheek. “You shot me in the ass!” he yelled before falling over.
Malic stopped as he reached the man. “Sandheden!” he yelled, and jabbed his wand against the man’s shoulder. He gasped and shook his head like a wet dog. The whites of his eyes flashed yellow for the briefest of moments before returning to their usual blues. “Has my honesty spell taken?” he demanded.
“Yes,” the man barked, lips stretched into a sneer.
“What’s your name?”
“William Flemington.”
“Why aren’t you sad?”
“Because I don’t know how to be!”
“Why are you happy?”
William hesitated for a nanosecond before answering. “Because I know why people are sad, and how to stop it.”
“How then do you stop it?”
“A melancholy output device. At least that’s what I call it.”
“Can you take me to it?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
Chapter 3
The Stalagmite of Ice and Sadness
The hillside rose like a mountain, and stretched east to west for what seemed an eternity. In the side of the hill was a hole barely big enough to support a standing man of average height. Melted snow was pouring from it like a waterfall, adding to the already ankle-high water Malic and William were wading through it.
William reached the cave mouth first, but stepped aside to allow Malic to enter first. He did, and William followed him in.
A short walk led to a small entrance. Beyond it was a circular room. Malic’s brows furrowed as he took in the steel walls. “Curious,” he said knowing that it was more common for human’s to use steel than for wizards. “I…” Malic stopped speaking as he, for the first time, looked fully upon a pulsating stalagmite seemingly made of ice set in the center of the room. The moment he laid eyes on it he was engulfed with a deep sadness. Tears ran hot down his cheeks. Behind him William, unaffected by his creation, raised a clenched fist and struck Malic in the back of the head. A reddish-green spell shot from his wand with a sound like a cannon firing and struck the stalagmite of ice and sadness dead center. It exploded with the force of a bomb that launched Malic off the ground and William into the air.
Malic hit the ground. Darkness stuttered around him, but before he died from the serrated stretch of ice jutting from his neck, he could have sworn he heard carolers singing a familiar song.
Christmas comes but once a year.
When it does the children cheer and we all hold dear, that child-like awe and atmosphere.
A Faery Merry Christmas
Anna Lea
The warlocks of Friz were a horrid bunch, with twisted, long, and thin bodies mirroring their gloomy insides. They were all grey: grey hair, which some said they were born with, grey eyes, grey clothing and shoes — why even their skin was greyish! They loved dark, twisted, and nasty things. They enjoyed practicing dark magic on unsuspecting, good people, and beautiful things.
Above all, they hated Christmas, with all its frivolity and merry times, including Santa and his elves, though they were too powerful to go to war with. They stole presents every chance they got, or they just broke them. The contrast of evergreen trees with the bright, multiple colors of string lights and the sparkling ornaments of every imaginable shape and size that were made from dust off faery wings infuriated them. The warlocks hated faeries as much as they hated Christmas. So they did what many horrid creatures do: they enslaved the faeries. They shook them viciously to harvest their dust. Although a powerful magic ingredient, faery dust couldn’t be used for dark or evil purposes; it would simply vanish. The warlocks threw it into a
n endless crack in the earth where it would never see the light of day again.
Silvia, recently orphaned princess of the faeries (her parents were killed by the warlocks of Friz), was small, even for a faery; the faery folk of Nyr were all teeny, but came in different shapes and sizes. She was just seven and quite cute, with her cap of silvery white hair the color of corn floss. She had a natural, lavender streak of thick hair that she wore in a high ponytail which fell to her mid back. Her blue eyes were the deep shade of the sky after a storm. Her beautiful wings, twice the size of her body, were blue and lavender with silver outlining the sections and displaying fancy and detailed patterns on the fragile skin. They were dull and greyed now, having lost their sparkle, and were furled protectively around Silvia. And she sat weeping in shackles of iron. The cold iron prevented her from using her remaining faery magic to escape.
“How has all this happened?” she asked herself. “How do I rescue all of us from the warlocks of Fritz?”
Silvia was beloved by all her subjects. She was the only child of her late parents and the apple of her Godfather Stephan’s eye.
Now Godfather Stephan, despite not being a faery, was no ordinary Godfather. He was King of the wizards of Gilroy. The wizards were of varying shapes and sizes. He was, himself, of medium build, and had a head of snow white hair with a jet black streak in it. His usually happy, laughing eyes were pure gold, but today they were full of sadness and anger. He paced wildly about the room, rather than sitting on his intricately carved wooden throne. He was holding King’s Court with his most trusted advisors.
It so happens that Gilroy and Fritz had been enemies for countless centuries. The recent murder of his best friends, Duncan and Serena, the abduction of their daughter, Silvia, and the enslavement of the faery folk of Nyr was the very last incident of many, the last of which caused the peaceful wizards to cry out for war. The problem was that they had no idea how to go about it. No wizard of Gilroy had ever even fought; if they came across a band of warlocks, they just defended themselves until the warlocks ran out of magic (light magic is more powerful and plentiful than dark magic) and then carried on about their business.
King Stephan had held his tongue while all the members of his Court had argued about the best way to go to war with the warlocks of Friz. Now, he could no longer remain silent.
“Enough! There is no best way. We aren’t warriors and fighting is unknown to us. The warlocks, on the other hand, have a lot of experience with war. War isn’t the way.”
The room was filled with noise as the Council at once began to protest and bicker about his words. Not one voice agreed with him.
“We cannot leave Princess Silvia and her people enslaved!” a loud voice summed up everyone’s opinion. “You must choose one of the paths to war that have been nominated.”
“There is another path,” King Stephan said. “We must use our powers of stealth to enter the dungeons of the warlocks of Friz, and to gain a key to the cells and shackles of the faery folk.”
“Splendid idea! Then we can fight our way out with the faery folk to help us!” another member exclaimed.
“Not, so,” King Stephan again disagreed. “The faeries of Nyr are beaten down and all but magicless. They are no more warriors than we are. No, we must find a way to cart them out as well, for many, if not all, will be in little condition to travel, and without the dust, will have no power of flight.”
“The King is right,” a different voice said. “All who support him say ‘aye’.”
A chorus of ayes was heard without a single nay.
“So be it,” said the King. “Now we must figure out a way.”
“I believe I can help with that,” came a disembodied, whinnying voice in everyone’s heads. “I have listened to all your comments, waiting to see which path you would choose. As it was peace, my people will help.” The air shimmered and a beautiful, solid white horse with a gilded gold horn came in to view. The unicorn extended one leg, while tucking in the other, in effect, kneeling. “I am Queen Xira of the unicorns of Blyr. We are moved to tears over the plight of the faeries of Nyr. We offer those and our backs for the faeries.”
Now all wizards know that unicorn tears conveyed a unicorn’s power of invisibility when mixed into potions with the right, other ingredients. With that and a ride on the unicorns out of the dungeon, the plan was set.
It didn’t take long to mix enough potions for all the wizards and enough more for the faeries. That accomplished, they set out for the dreary home place of the warlocks of Friz. They should have just enough time to rescue the faeries and for the faeries to regain their magic for Christmas.
An invisibility potion lasts until the user wills himself visible again, so the wizards’ trip was easy. The wizards traveled by day and since the warlocks were, by whole, nocturnal, they had no trouble. They reached the dungeons of Friz days before they’d expected to. The nimblest fingered wizards were set the task of retrieving the keys to the dungeons and shackles. Luckily, the single daytime guard was so sure of no one breaking into or out of the dungeon that he was sleeping soundly. It was a simple matter to lift the key. A spell ensured the guard continued to slumber.
Ten wizards, carrying a hundred invisibility potions each, crept into the cells, as did King Stephan. Each cell contained ten faeries shackled together with one lock. The ten wizards each took one cell at a time and helped the prisoners, once they’d drank the potion, to waiting wizards who helped them to unicorns waiting outside the dungeon. Once on the unicorn, they set out immediately for home, so another could take their place.
King Stephan looked until he found Silvia. He gave her the potion, then carried her to a unicorn himself. He rode back with her to her kingdom. On the way, he told her his eldest son, twenty years old, would sit the Gilroy throne while Stephan, and his wife who was already awaiting them at the kingdom of Nyr, would remain with Silvia until she was grown.
The rescue was a total success, completed two hours before nightfall. Knowing the warlocks would be coming for them again, the wizards, unicorns, and faeries (who had gained a full measure of dust by that time) cast a combined protection spell over their three kingdoms. It proved powerful enough that the warlocks, sieging for days against the iridescent bubble over the kingdoms, were unable to break it. Frustrated, they finally gave up and went home.
A month later, it was Christmas. This year, the faeries had outdone themselves. The lights were more spectacular and sparkly, in shapes of wizards and unicorns and faeries. Ornaments followed suit, though there were, of course, other types, such as cats and dogs, all the ornaments had either a starred hat, a gilded gold, spiral horn, or faerie wings on them. Santa’s private tree had a topper of a small, winged faery riding behind a white haired man in a starred wizard robe astride a beautiful white unicorn.
It was a faery merry Christmas for all except the warlocks of Friz.
The Christmas Cuckoo Clock
Pamela Joyce Silva
Audrey closed the door and leaned wearily against it. She set the alarm and dimmed the lights, which left a soft illumination. The Christmas trees, lighted snow globes, and massive presents that stood on the floor wrapped gaily in bright paper and ribbons provided light from bubble lights and old-fashioned Christmas lights.
Some of the antiques were placed strategically in the small display case bay window as had been done for the forty-five years of Turnbull’s Antiques existence. The little store had always held a timeless enchantment for her. No matter how hard her own situation had become, Audrey had always been welcomed in the antique store by the couple who owned it.
It started when she began walking home from school at an early age. Her parents had never been able to keep a car. Besides, she preferred the quiet of walking alone to school as opposed to being at home.
One day, when it was pouring rain, Mrs. Turnbull had stepped outside just as Audrey was passing the store. She stopped Audrey, insisting she come inside for hot cocoa. It wa
s the beginning of a friendship that had turned a timid and awkward young girl into an intelligent and talented young woman.
Many hours followed at the Turnbull’s tastefully decorated home to the pleasure of both parties. She, in turn, filled a void for the childless couple who were also with no other family. When her parents died in a car wreck while, unsurprisingly, intoxicated, the Turnbulls lost no time in moving her in with them.
She worked for them in their store when not in school until the day she graduated. Then, she insisted on working for them as soon as her college was complete. With her grades and two highly prized internships behind her, both the Turnbulls had argued she should now proceed to apply for the enviable museum positions for which they felt they could procure. But, Audrey prevailed.
After years away, she found to her own surprise that she wanted to go home. She loved their shop more than any museum. She went to gather her things when something made her glance up at the cuckoo clock hanging above the counter. It was a personal possession of the Turnbulls, and not for sale. It looked like any antique cuckoo clock. She tried to recall information on cuckoo clocks. They were typically a pendulum regulated clock making a sound like a common cuckoo’s call. The automaton cuckoo bird was made to move with each note.
She had never heard it chime. Which was odd, considering Mr. T was very adamant about repairing each antique until it was perfect. The few times she asked about it, the Turnbulls just said they had no wish to sell it. The most Mrs. T had ever replied was that it was from their home country, which was information they also did not share. Suddenly, she had an inspiration. She would have the clock repaired for their Christmas present. There was still time. She had many contacts. Tomorrow was Saturday and neither of the Turnbulls would work. She hurried out the door into the night.
The next morning dawned into its usual steel blue sky that heralded snow. Walking into the store just made her excitement that much more heightened. From a background where there had been no such holiday celebration, she cherished the bright lights, tinny Christmas carols, and the smell of the Wassail punch awaiting whatever customers might visit. Let people call it commercialism. For those who knew how to love and worship it, it was worth every minute of happiness the season brought.
