by Tim Curran
Santa didn’t answer him; only swung the axe up and back down through the top of Lou’s skull. It split in half and he dropped to the floor like a stone. He chopped at him for a while, momentarily forgetting about Robert. Robert’s mouth gaped in horror. He had to get out of here! But he had to get Susan out before this homicidal Santa found her. He ran to Toys, careful not to make noise this time. He literally ran into her near the Barbie dolls. Any other time that much pink would make him puke. This time, however, he didn’t even notice.
Rather than try to explain about psycho Santa, he whispered to Susan, “We have to get out of here. There’s been a break-in and they have guns.”
He knew that would get her going. She nodded and put down the toys she was arranging. As they were sneaking through Hardware, three more reindeer stopped them short. Amazingly, they snorted smoke from their nostrils and bellowed like bulls. Suddenly they charged like bulls! Robert dropped and rolled away, smacking into a hanging rack, and suddenly rained on by small tools.
Susan only screamed once, was knocked down, and all three reindeer stomped on her viciously. Robert suddenly noticed the air valve on the back hindquarters of each reindeer. He grabbed a pair of pliers and ripped them out of the package. He used them to grab the valve and rip the entire thing off. Immediately that reindeer deflated before his eyes. He couldn’t believe that it worked! He grabbed a screwdriver and jabbed it into another one; it burst with an audible pop! The third one ran off, trailing Susan’s blood and gore down the aisle.
He sobbed silently as he quietly made his way to the front. Passing the rack of posters, he stopped when he heard a noise. Out stepped Santa, bigger and badder than ever!
“Have you been naughty or nice?” he bellowed at Robert.
`“I’ve been nice!” Robert screamed hysterically, “I’m always nice! I’m a good guy!”
The axe flew past his head and buried its head into a poster of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow, splitting Jack’s head in two. Robert almost pissed himself.
Smiling, Santa pulled out a notepad from his pocket and cheerfully said, “Nice! Good, got you down now on the ‘Nice List’. No lump of coal for you. Ho Ho Ho!”
Santa put the notepad back, stood still, and promptly deflated.
The End
About the Author
Veronica Smith lives in Katy, Texas, a suburb west of Houston. She has been married to her husband, Kelly, for over 25 year and has a son, Zach, who just graduated from college and is also a writer. She’s always loved writing and although her overall school grades were only average, she always got A’s in English.
Her current project is her first full-length novel, Salvation, for Helheim Games Studios. It is based on the Survive: Zombie Apocalypse CCG and should be published soon. She also has several short stories published in anthologies.
https://www.facebook.com/Veronica.Smith.Author/?fref=ts
All Naughty, No Nice
By
Michael A. Arnzen
The letters had stopped coming long ago.
But he still had his magic list. He still checked it twice. He hoped for a change, but still it proclaimed: the kids were all naughty, no nice.
Yet it is still Christmas. And Santa is still Santa. He rides, his sleigh loaded up with gifts for those who no longer deserve them. The big bulky bag behind his seat remains full and this weight slows down his flight. But still he must make his journey. Still he must deliver joy.
If he can find it.
He travels above rooftops, searching for someone, anyone, deserving of his finely wrapped packages. The air is always choppy and cold. It's a different kind of winter now -- one that never ends. It's always Christmas for Santa. His work never ceases. It can't.
The reindeer snarl and snap at each other while their bone-grey legs angrily churn in the snow-laden air. His heavy red sleigh courses through dirty orange clouds, moonlit and musty.
Rudolph's nose no longer glows. It fell off weeks ago. Blitzen, three rows back, is dead in the air, a corpse hanging loosely in its harness across the sky. The others have chewed his dangling legs to the bone. All of their eyes are dead and grey, but they remain fuelled by his magic -- and a growing resentment he tries hard to ignore.
Santa Claus cracks his whip on backs of the reindeer as he crosses the Canadian border. He scans the houses below, seeking any telltale signs of Christmas joy. But there are none. No fireplaces crackling smoke up to the sky. No decorated trees in city streets or fancy light displays. Just rundown factories and empty houses. Shattered glass and crashed cars. Empty shopping malls and city halls. Fallen flagpoles and overgrown hedges.
Everywhere, always, desolation.
But the people -- if they even are people anymore -- are still down there. Harried and gaunt, they rove in bands of ugly starvation. Sometimes he spots children, loping among the hungry hoards of the undead. Sometimes he imagines they look up at him above, smiling in the Christmas starlight. But he knows those sparkling teeth are just open-mouthed cries for food.
For flesh.
For him.
Sometimes, out of pity -- and other times, out of boredom -- he'll toss a colourful box down into the throng of creatures. They never pay attention to it, and keep ambling en masse, kicking through its ribbons and wrapping paper. Instead of playing with their toys, they just raise their hands up toward the heavens, crying out at him for the one gift he refuses to give them. Himself. His body.
The sole survivor's flesh and blood.
Sometimes he considers teasing them, leading them all up to the North Pole, like some insane Pied Piper of the Damned. He knows he could shepherd them all -- the whole world of these hungry monsters -- into one giant crowd of chewing mouths, a pile of creatures he could leap into. He would deliver to mankind a final gift of his fatty flesh and it would make for a fine Christmas meal, yes it would.
But he refuses to believe he is really so abandoned. So alone. He keeps hoping he'll find someone. Anyone with a soul left to serve.
His magic does not help him understand what has happened.
It just keeps him alive, in flight, sailing in the sky with his hideously transformed reindeer, and all those wasted gifts.
He keeps searching for survivors.
And checking his list.
Checking it twice.
He hopes for a change, but it always proclaims:
The kids are all naughty.
No nice.
The End
About the Author
Michael Arnzen (gorelets.com) teaches fulltime in the MFA in Writing Popular Fiction program at Seton Hill University, and has been publishing sick and funny horror for about twenty-five years. He is author of the novels, Grave Markings and Play Dead, and you can catch "the best of Arnzen" in the recent re-release of his Bram Stoker Award-winning collection, Proverbs for Monsters from Dark Regions Press. Also look for his series, "55 Ways I'd Prefer Not To Die," in The Year's Best Hardcore Horror in 2017.
http://gorelets.com/
Slay Bells
By
Weston Kincade
Mr. Chokoteh reaches into the large, hand-sewn leather bowl, his hand shuffling around inside. He is a jolly man with a rotund belly the size of old Saint Nick’s and a beardless grin almost as wide. The only real difference between him and the merry holiday depiction is Mr. Chokoteh’s darker complexion, a common enough trait for the Aleut, Haida, and other Inuit tribes that reside here in rural Alaska. Otherwise, he is the greatest reflection of human duplicity our northern brethren could create, a man after the heart of any flamboyant circus ringmaster.
“Get ready!” Mr. Chokoteh says happily, his hand still swirling.
The inhabitants of our small town all stand in front of the raised platform, backs straight, eyes drilling into the mayor as they anxiously await the verdict. It is this way every year, to decide who will be given to the Saumen Kars, the offering that has kept our little fishing village intact since the earliest stories of legend told by
our elders.
Lifting one solitary strip of faded paper from the bowl, the mayor stares for an extended moment. Each person in the village has a slip. It’s the first thing filled out by medical staff after the birth certificate.
Come on, come on, I plead silently, staring up as he stands before us, two feet above the ground.
Fists clenched, I’m not sure why every orifice is threatening to let loose at the same time. For fourteen years, as far as I can remember back, it’s always felt this way, on this day--this very day--a day that stands in memoriam: Ma’s first and last Christmas Eve that I can recall. Every day since has been like this. Her name didn’t come up, nor did mine or Pa’s, but she died nonetheless. Now every Christmas Eve the feeling returns.
“Well…,” Mr. Chokoteh says, clearing his throat, “I did not expect this.”
A uniform gasp grips the crowd of nearly two hundred people, filling the crisp night air with orgasmic anticipation. Who will live? Who will be this year’s “volunteer”? The one donation every resident makes each lifetime. “Some just have longer to grieve,” or so say the old-timers at the local trade store when I stop in.
My voice fills my skull. Get on with it! There are murmurs in the crowd, questions and even a few spat words.
“It is always with grief and pity that I look upon our token, the gift for our Saumen Kar protector on Quviasukvik, our winter feast and celebration. But all must eat.” Mr. Chokoteh’s eyes search the crowd, coal-black but glistening with flecks of deep brown. They find me, and stop.
Really? No… this is not happening! My knees tremble under his stare.
The mayor frowns and nods, his gaze never leaving mine. “Do not fear, child,” he says, coming down the steps. “I am here for you.” He lifts his hands, gold chains and a pocket watch dangling from his red vest as both arms rise, outstretched. “We are all here for you. You are our savior in our time of need,” he recites, the words stretching back before anyone can remember. Only legends remain to explain our archaic predicament. “We thank you for your gift on this hallowed Quviasukvik.” His words continue in the traditional right given every Christmas Eve.
His words echo in my mind, then dissipate into a burbling murmur behind my thoughts. My hands clench. Eyes dart left, then right.
Mr. Chokoteh’s plastic smile holds no emotion, no pity, no understanding. It is one of acceptance of his place in the world as he descends the few steps from the platform and anchors himself a foot ahead of me, where the crowd has opened up.
Run! Run! Run… run… run… The words meld into my mind forming a mantra, but instead of moving, I stand, my back erect, hands tightening then loosening. Move, dammit! I tell myself.
The mayor stares down at my simple body; no more than five feet tall, my feminine curves are more akin to a youthful adolescent boy’s. Other children in the village call me Tilagisich, or broom. “Slender and petite,” my father calls it. “Just give it a few years, little nivi.” It’s always been his nickname for me. Under Mr. Chokoteh’s bushy gaze, the chill in my gut spreads like a plague of icy butterflies.
Fingers flex and flutter. And I’m off, dashing to my left, between family friends and acquaintances who watched me grow up. Men and women tower over me.
Mr. Chokoteh clucks disapprovingly, taking slow steps to follow. “Miss Yazzie, what do you think you are doing?”
In my panic, I can’t even acknowledge him--I don’t dare. Concentrating on forcing myself through the slim gaps between people, my focus is on the edge of the clearing. The town’s many compact buildings line the center of our small village, beckoning with places to hide like an oversized granny ushering children beneath her ample skirts.
As the villagers realize what I’ve done, arms reach out, fingers pluck at my deer skins and wrap around my thin arms. My progress slows with the drag and I glance around, assessing their looks. Dark, matching Inuit eyes stare down from a myriad of faces, pity held within their depths, but also determination. If I don’t make the sacrifice, it will have to be one of them. I chew my lower lip as dozens of gazes stare into mine, slowing my progress further, condemning my fear and selfishness. Glancing around, I find Pa. His honey eyes meet mine, a few mere feet away. Unshed tears glisten and his face is slack, but his lips mouth “I’m sorry.”
“Miss Yazzie, we thank you for your gift. No need to run. We are here for you.” The mayor stops and turns back toward the platform.
No, no, no! This is wrong, I tell myself. Run, Inuk. I push forward through the throng of people closing in around me until one firm hand grips my shoulder, unwavering. My gaze follows it from wrist, over my shoulder, to its owner. The hand belongs to Pa. He shakes his head sadly and my eyes widen. Pushing forward, I try to pull away but other hands take hold of my arms, elbows, and both shoulders. Forward momentum stops altogether and I’m jerked backward, toward the mayor and his Cheshire cat grin.
The words finally find their way out as I scream, “No, no, no! Stop! You can’t do this.” But the words die on my lips as I’m pulled past Pa, his own hands betraying me as I drift backwards. “Pa…! Pa…!”
My pa’s gaze wavers on mine momentarily, then drops to the trampled grass, dirt, and snow below.
“Pa,” I mumble, exhaling as he drifts from sight, his fur-covered form mixing with the mass of people.
Before I know it, my perspective changes. The ground falls away from my feet and I’m staring out above the heads of my people, those I’ve grown up with all my life, lived with, cared for, and been scolded by when my little brother Miki and I ventured into town for a sweet pie with nothing to pay for it. Miki is nowhere to be found in this scrum of people, but at barely eleven years old, he is still shorter than me. He would be nearly impossible to find amidst so many adults. The common snow covering is clearly visible now, coating houses, stores, porches, and the makeshift street and town center. For a pregnant moment, swirling air from the mass of people drifts up and over the crowd in an entrancing dance, mixing with the clouds above and the darkening sky beyond. Night is coming, and with it Christmas Eve, or Quviasukvik as the tribal elders call our winter feast. I have enjoyed that feast every year for as long as I can remember, at least the food. Otherwise, the holiday is a constant reminder of our family’s loss--the first of a series if today is any indication.
“Miss Yazzie, it is good to see you’ve changed your mind,” Mr. Chokoteh intones once my feet settle onto the platform and he turns me around. As though oblivious to my plight, his plastic smile greets me once again like the worst frenemy one could have.
“I… c-can’t…”
“You can,” he assures me, his grin never wavering. “It is time.”
A second later, footsteps echo behind me and something pierces my neck. Darkness quickly follows.
Cold wind courses over my exposed skin, chilling my already numb nose, cheeks, arms and legs. The feel of tiny hairs battling the wind wakes me from my anesthetized slumber. Then the cold seeps into my consciousness. Opening my eyes in a stupor, pine tree limbs hang overhead, northern lights playing in the background like LSD-infused fairies in tie-dyed tutus. Sitting up, every joint screams with the movement, shooting pain up and down my legs and torso. Something jingles too, but the sound is muted in my current condition. I barely hear it, but the pain of everything colliding in my mind at once overwhelms me.
What happened? Where am I?
Fluffy, wet flakes continue to drift down. Shaking off God’s dandruff, I force my limbs to work and stand. A shiver sweeps through me as wind buffets my scantily clad form. My furs are gone, leaving only a thin shift that barely covers my thighs. It clings to my body, frigid and soaked through.
“What the hell?” I can’t help but ask the shadows. My voice cracks like an iceberg leaving port and I grimace.
Beneath the dark canopy of trees, an enormous downed pine catches my attention. Under its exposed limbs, the black depths of shelter catch my eye. I tread closer in bare feet, stumbling forward only to fall to my knees and
shuffle inside, unsure if I’m intruding on something’s lair. However, the question doesn’t even come to mind till after I’m curled beneath the great tree, huddled within its arms and fallen snow.
The makeshift cave is only a few feet deep, but it blocks out the biting wind. For the first time since waking up, I can hear my own uneven breathing. The temporary housing is a blessing though. Closing my eyes, I focus on balanced breathing, something Ikiaq taught me while out hunting. Ikiaq is only a few years older than me, but he is like an older brother, stepping in when Pa couldn’t… or wouldn’t. “When in danger,” he had said, “keep control. Control your breathing and you will control the situation.” I do as he said, thanking him silently for the training he’d provided over the years. It was what had allowed me to hunt for the family, to provide when times were tight. Pa was never good at that--still isn’t, I correct myself. Although he delivered me to Mr. Chokoteh, he is still alive. I can’t just dismiss him. He’s my pa. The thought threatens to break something deep within my soul, something that hasn’t revealed itself since it was first cracked open the night of Ma’s death. Since then, Pa never ventured too far from home, especially at night. He works for Mr. Chokoteh at the trade store, pulling in just enough to survive but nothing more.
Breathe in, breathe out.
My teeth chatter. I can’t stop them. With it comes the familiar sound I heard before, the jingling of small Christmas bells like Saint Nicholas is near. With the eerie silence of night filling me, the curious sound piques my interest.
Where is it coming from?
A shiver courses through me once more, and with it a chorus of jingles. Eyes widening, I run hands through my dark hair. It’s matted and damp, but as I follow each clump to its end I find small Christmas bells tightly woven in. One, then two, three, then more and more.
