The December Awethology - Dark Volume

by The Awethors

  And with that, Aunt Sarah stormed out of the living room and locked herself in the bathroom until Uncle Herbert agreed to drive her straight home.

  A silver-wrapped truffle made its way into Sandra’s hand. The collection of foil wrappers that was forming around her on the floor looked rather festive. She flicked on the tree lights and watched the twinkles bouncing from wrapper to wrapper like a light show; it was mesmerizing. More wrappers would be even brighter. She could enjoy some true holiday cheer today before the drama began tomorrow, when the family arrived for dinner.

  ~~~~

  They found her on Christmas day, propped up next to the half-decorated Christmas tree, her back against the stacked boxes of decorations, a wide smile frozen on her face. Dozens of colorful foil truffle wrappers lay scattered around her, sparkling with the reflected lights from the still-twinkling Christmas tree.

  “Huh. Will you look at that,” Uncle Herbert said derisively, thrusting his hand out toward her. “Dead. She finally did it—she ate herself into a chocolate death.”

  Aunt Lucy shook her head and tsked, staring down her nose at Sandra’s body. “She never could control herself with sugar. Now look what she’s done. And such a mess of wrappers all over the floor! She never did know how to keep house properly.”

  The smile remained. It was her happiest Christmas ever.

  A Curmudgeons Christmas

  C E Vance

  Here it is,

  It’s come already.

  Sinister snow

  Brilliant and deadly.

  I hate the snow;

  Silent and cold.

  It makes me feel gloomy.

  It makes me feel old.

  Frozen fingers;

  My toes are numb.

  That blasted hot chocolate

  Has burned my tongue.

  My ears both ache

  I’m not having fun.

  The snot has frozen

  Where my nose has run.

  Green and red—

  In October.

  Forget pumpkins and scarecrows,

  Kris Kringle took over.

  Rudolph’s been on

  Since the first of November.

  When last was I warm?

  Not sure I remember.

  Gifts over-priced,

  People in fights.

  I try not to go crazy

  With all of my might.

  It’s no fun at all,

  It really is not.

  Would you mind too terribly

  If your gift has no thought?

  Bite my tongue,

  Hold back that pout.

  Pack ‘em all in;

  Roll everyone out.

  I grit my teeth

  Then start our car.

  I said we’d be happy

  To drive that darn far.

  Come fight the crowds;

  Come wait in line.

  Come pay to see Santa

  And hear babies whine.

  Too many parties

  With punch and glazed ham.

  It’s just not for me,

  I’m now on the lam.

  I’m off to Bermuda,

  To the sand and blue sea.

  Please don’t laugh;

  Don’t shake your head at me.

  The hassle, the stress

  No peace can I find.

  It’s just not for me,

  You won’t change my…

  My idle thoughts

  Now start to wander.

  My anger melts

  And then I ponder.

  I sit outside

  In the chilly air.

  Perhaps my perceptions

  Were not always fair.

  It’s not about me

  Or my unbalanced view.

  It’s not about gifts

  Or a new pair of shoes.

  It’s all about joy

  With those I hold dear.

  Maybe it’s time

  To find Christmas cheer.

  Warm apple cider

  A glass of egg-nog.

  The way snow sparkles

  As light clears the fog.

  Giggles and whispers

  Tiny voices conspire.

  Choirs on my doorstep

  A warm hearth with fire.

  Calm, crisp air,

  Bright twinkling lights.

  Driving ‘round town

  To see the sights.

  The laughter of children,

  A home filled with love.

  Moments of peace

  As stars shine above.

  I’ll freeze my face,

  Put on those skates.

  I promise to put

  A smile in the place,

  Where the curmudgeon inside

  Would wear a frown.

  Fill my season with love

  I’ll never come down.

  There’s room in my heart;

  I’ve finally made space.

  I made Christmas more

  Than just things I hate.

  It’s not so hard,

  You can do it too.

  Focus on the love,

  Not the curmudgeon in you!

  A Christmas Treat: Spicy and Sweet

  Elizabeth Horton-Newton

  The snow had been falling for over two hours and I had to fight lanes of traffic to get to the cabin. When I saw the brightly lit windows, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree winking a warm welcome, I smiled. Cinnamon would be inside preparing another of her delicious dinners. I patted my pocket and felt the hard square of the jewelers’ box. Her divorce was final and tonight I would propose. Grabbing the bag with the bottle of champagne from the seat beside me I stepped carefully from the car. It wouldn’t do for me to slip on ice and break both the bottle and possibly my own leg on such an auspicious occasion.

  My boots left large prints in the virgin snow, but they had already begun to fill by the time I reached the door. As I entered the house the wonderful scents of something cooking tickled my nose. Cinnamon had promised a special Christmas Eve surprise. Although I didn’t know what was cooking, I had no doubt it would be a treat. The girl could cook.

  “I’m home,” I called up the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs and the sound of running water let me know she was running a bath. My hand was on the newel post when I saw the bright yellow note. ‘No Peeking’ was written in bright red. Laughing and shaking my head, I turned toward the kitchen where the promise of a delightful meal floated in the air.

  Going into the kitchen I put the champagne in the refrigerator and turned to look at the oven. Surely a little peek wouldn’t hurt. It was then I noticed the Post-it on the range hood. ‘No Peeking!’ was written in big, black letters. I had to chuckle. “She knows me so well,” I thought.

  Before heading back into the living room I poured myself a double scotch. Plopping down on the couch I stretched out my legs, propping my feet on the coffee table. The Christmas lights danced on the tree hypnotically. Cinnamon and I had worked hard to get to this night and I couldn’t wait to see her face when I presented the two carat diamond to her. I’d played the scene over several times in my head. Soon the warmth of the room and the tumbler of scotch worked with my exhaustion and I dozed off.

  Cinnamon and I had met at the gym where I worked. She was a member and I spotted her the first time she walked through the doors. I angled over to her and persuaded her to let me be her personal trainer. I admit I was surprised when I met her husband. Ray was a wealthy, dour man who was obviously quite a bit older than she was. In less than two weeks she was in my bed. In a month she was talking about how she wanted to leave old Ray.

  I had no problem with marrying Cinnamon but I couldn’t see leaving Ray with full pockets. I wasn’t exactly the highest earning guy in the neighborhood. Cinnamon hadn’t worked much in her life. Some of Ray’s money would go a long way toward helping us set up housekeeping. At first she had been resistant; she just wanted out. Little by little I educated her.
It wasn’t too difficult. She liked her Chloe bags, Louboutin shoes, and Stella McCartney dresses. I couldn’t afford those. Heck, I couldn’t afford the dust bags you store them in.

  In time Cinnamon saw things my way. The only question was how to have Ray see things my way. In her innocence Cinnamon provided the key, or the lever if you will, to push Ray over the edge. Ray had early onset dementia. If word of his illness got out his company stock would plummet and with it his fortune. After some negotiating with Ray and his lawyers, we came to an agreement. Cinnamon would receive two million dollars up front and twenty thousand dollars monthly until she remarried. Of course that would require our having a rather lengthy engagement. But we could acquire a considerable nest egg of goodies and see some exotic places while we continued our romance.

  Cinnamon had no problem setting up a joint account for us so I would be able to access funds as needed. That was one reason I could afford the gigantic rock I would place on the third finger of her left hand. It should hold her off the marriage train for a while.

  Don’t misunderstand. Cinnamon is a hottie. She’s a dynamo in bed too. Considering she reported Ray was pretty much a limp noodle in that respect I was really reaping the rewards. So you see, it wasn’t just the money.

  Anyway, I woke suddenly and realized I could hear the oven timer buzzing irritably in the kitchen.

  “Cinnamon, the timer went off,” I called as I stumbled, slightly inebriated, into the kitchen to silence the buzzer. I headed back to the foot of the stairs to call up to her again and heard the bath still running. She was something of a hedonist when it came to baths. Shrugging I went back to the kitchen.

  Opening the oven door I pulled out the roasting pan and set it on top of the stove. Glancing at the warning, ‘No Peeking’ note, I decided it no longer applied since I had to see if the food was done. Lifting off the heavy lid I was hit full in the face with steam and closed my eyes momentarily. As the steam cleared I gazed down at the wonderfully scented main course Cinnamon had prepared. It took me almost a full thirty seconds to register what I was seeing. Cinnamon was staring up at me. At least she would have been if she still had eyes. They had cooked away into her head and down her cheeks. Her once full lips were drawn back tightly over the perfect white teeth Ray had paid big bucks for. Gagging and back pedaling from the stove I dropped the lid which clattered loudly on the floor.

  Turning, I ran for the stairs and took them two at a time until I reached the upstairs hall. The carpet squished beneath my shoes and I realized it was saturated with water. Bouncing off the walls of the narrow hall I made my way to the bathroom. Flinging open the door I stumbled back, my feet tangling and landing me in a heap on the floor. Cinnamon’s headless body floated in the garden tub, her perfect paid for breasts bobbing provocatively in the pink tinted water.

  Turning my head I saw the opened bedroom door. Ray sat on the edge of the huge sleigh bed smiling at me.

  “Hello Steve. Is dinner ready?”

  My screams echoed off the walls challenged only by Ray’s maniacal laughter. I scooted toward the stairs on my backside, desperate to escape the horrors I was seeing. In my frantic state I miscalculated and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to lie crumbled at the bottom like an abandoned puppet. Ray appeared at the top of the stairs holding an axe and still laughing. My mind screamed at my arms and legs to move but my body wasn’t obeying.

  As Ray slowly descended the stairs he began to sing,

  “You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I’m telling you why…” He lifted the axe high over his head, his arms trembling at the weight. “It’s going to be coal in your stocking Steve. You’ve been a bad boy.”

  The Lament of Vienna

  Matthew W Harrill

  Annika clutched her doll, a one-eyed and frayed affair whose brown mop hair had thinned with time and rough treatment by her elder sister, Livia. Named Gertrude, the doll was Annika’s only companion and her best friend. She ignored the faults, the skin so thin that the stuffing was beginning to push through worn patches, the leg hanging loose. Gertrude shared her life, filled the holes that were so achingly large.

  Dressed in a striped cotton nightgown, another hand-me-down, she watched the street below, looking for any sign of movement. The man in the cloak had said he would come back this night. He would bring friends.

  Echoes of ‘Stille Nacht’ wafted through the cracks in the window as a choir strolled past bundled up in coats and bearing crooked staffs with lanterns and tinsel. Vienna was cold around Christmas. The six year old Annika propped Gertrude against the window frame. The twinkling lights from the nearest Christmas tree shone past the shadowed husks of trees already shed of their leaves. This year was colder than most, so Papa said. The winter had Austria clutched in its deadly grip.

  “Let's get you warm, Gertrude,” Annika decided, wrapping her best friend close in a shawl. She continued her vigil. Annika was not welcome at the party. Livia and her brother Florian, whom she loved with his dashing looks and funny jokes, were the centre of attention. Annika was used to it. She was the child her mother had not wanted, that was what Livia said to her all the time. They would be downstairs with all the neighbours, drinking sweet Glühwein and eating gingerbread and Christmas cookies.

  When everybody was asleep, she would creep downstairs with Gertrude and find what was left, if any. Mama ate a lot at parties. She would share it with her friend, and the man in the cloak.

  The night drew on, candles winking out as revellers turned to thoughts of sleep. Their children were already abed, restless and sporadically waking, excited to see what the Christkind would leave them under the tree.

  Annika had no such illusions, even for a child of six. Only she and Gertrude knew who stalked the streets this night. The darkness held wonder for her. Stars shone in the cloudless sky, the moon illuminating the street. Advent wreaths marked out the houses he would visit just as in days of yore.

  "Days of yore, Gertrude," Annika said aloud, enjoying the sound of the words. The man in the cloak had spoken those words when he appeared a few weeks back, when she had made the wish. She had no idea what they meant but they sounded important.

  "Annika," whispered a voice.

  Annika looked at Gertrude. The sound had come from her doll. "Yes?"

  The worn face remained impassive, yet the voice issued from the thin line of stitching that was Gertrude's mouth.

  "It is time, Annika. He is here. Please take me down into the parlour. Take me there."

  Excited, Annika jumped down from the window ledge, disturbing the small star she had made from straw, her only decoration and most treasured item after her best friend.

  Opening her door, Annika crept on silent feet down the wide stone stairs to the floor below where Mama, Papa, Livia and Florian had their rooms. Each door had its own wreath, small golden presents and painted pine cones bringing them to life. For a moment Annika was sad that they would never share the decorations beyond this floor, hoarding them like a dragon hoards gold. She was sad, but never jealous, for Annika was promised a treasure better than trinkets. She was going to see him.

  Tiptoeing down the wide and very grand stairs to the hallway, she showed Gertrude what was left of the feast in the dining room. The goose was mostly gone, as was the fried carp. The tree had been decorated without care; tinsel that had been thrown on was lying in piles on the floor in between several boxed gifts. None would have her name on them. Despite Gertrude's urging, Annika took the time to repair the tree decorations as best she could. She was not very tall, and never had a lot to eat.

  Once done, Annika moved toward the parlour following the insistent and repetitive urgings of her doll. There was an inviting glow coming out from the gap under the door, golden and warming. Faint hints of music could be heard, violins and flutes, a tambourine being tapped. Annika reached out, pushing the door open.

  Golden light bathed over her, so bright she had to use Gertrude to shield her eyes. Candles shone
everywhere, the air warm and pleasant with the scent of apples and cinnamon. The music increased tenfold, the tune she recognised as a song Papa called ‘The Blue Danube’. Children scampered around the table, reaching for slices of apple pie and chocolate cake, gingerbread and sweetmeats.

  There in the middle, with his companions, stood Saint Nicholas, laughing with the joy of the occasion, the light strongest about him. His beard and hair so white that it was hard to make out the features of his face, he glowed. He must have been an angel.

  Annika’s stomach gave an involuntary grumble and the music stopped. All in the parlour turned to regard their new guest in silence.

  “I’m... I’m sorry,” Annika said, her eyes drawn to the food. “I’m just so hungry,”

  Resplendent in his mitre and robes, both white with swirls of red-patterned stitching, Saint Nicholas stood and opened his arms. “Annika, welcome. Come in and eat of my table. Be neither afraid, nor hungry, not on this night. For tonight is a special night, for special children.”

  Clutching Gertrude tight, Annika ran into the embrace of the kindly old man, feeling overwhelming love in his arms.

  “Come, child. Eat your fill. Then we will talk of your wish.”

  Annika ran to the table, and with joyous self-abandon, tucked into the treats that seemed to have no end. When she was full, Annika approached the kindly Saint once again. At his right shoulder stood the cloaked man, wearing chains and holding a bundle of birch sticks.

  "Now my companion here tells me you have a very special request."

  Annika smiled, just like the cloaked man had said that she should, and repeated the words he had made her remember.