by Tim Curran
He threw his Kindle on the bedside cabinet, turned his lamp off, and turned over to go to sleep.
***
‘Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful. And since we've no place to go. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow’.
Jeff slammed a fist on his alarm clock, which flashed 6:30, abruptly ending the irritating Christmas music. Then he fell back to sleep. When he opened his eyes again, the clock read 8:00.
“Shit, I’m late.”
He fell out of bed and then rushed around his flat. Not bothering to wash, as there was not enough time, he tried brushing his teeth at the same time as buttoning his shirt. He spat and left them half brushed. Once dressed, Jeff rushed out of the door, his hair stood upright on top of his head. He pulled his beanie hat tight over it, hoping that by the time he got to work, the hat would have made his hair lay down a little.
He turned the corner of his street and fell over as he collided with a small child coming in the opposite direction. “Watch where you’re going,” said the child in a deep voice.
Jeff turned to look and noticed the little man; he was wearing a green elf outfit. He had a beard. He wasn't a child.
“Sorry, sorry...” Jeff said, while getting back to his feet. Then he carried on with his run to work.
“Don’t worry about it, Jeff.” He heard the elf call. “Merry Christmas!”
Jeff turned to see the elf waving to him.
‘How does he know my name?’ wondered Jeff.
Jeff didn’t see any other people until he reached the high street. When he ran his gaze along it, taking in the busy shops and its smattering of people in the area, he almost fainted. Everywhere he looked, people were wearing the same green and red elf costume, and they were all so little!
“Merry Christmas, Jeff.” A small woman smiled as she passed.
“Merry Christmas, Jeff.” A short old man said.
“Merry Christmas, Jeff,” called another woman.
“Merry Christmas, Jeff,” said a woman who was pushing her pram. The baby sat up and smiled. “Merry Missmus, Heff.”
“What the hell is going on?” muttered Jeff, grabbing his head.
He felt as though all the elves were circling him. He pushed his way through them, almost falling over again. Sprinting down the road towards his office, he told himself this was just a dream. It’s all just part of his imagination. Any minute now, and he will wake up.
Throwing the doors open, he stormed into his office. His jaw dropped when he saw that his colleagues had all been replaced by tiny people.
“Merry Christmas, Jeff,” they called in unison.
Jeff’s legs gave ‘way on him. He dropped to the floor, trying to control his shaking. The people in front of him all had the faces of his normal colleagues, but they were all elves.
‘This can’t be happening!’ Jeff thought to himself, panic-stricken.
“Boss wants to see you,” a voice said, coming from his side.
“Chris?” Jeff asked as he looked at the child-sized man.
“Yeah, you’re late. Boss wants to see you,” Chris answered.
Jeff pulled himself up from the floor and slowly made his way towards the boss’s office. Jeff’s boss, Frank, was six foot five. Jeff couldn’t imagine the guy as an elf. He didn’t think his mind would be able to process it. When he knocked on the door, he could see a large silhouette through the frosted glass.
“Finally! Someone who’s not tiny,” muttered Jeff to himself in relief.
The door swung open. Jeff’s face was filled with the sight of red. His eyes were level with this man's chest. He slowly brought his stare up along the red suited chest, until he met a huge white beard. Then, above that, rosy red cheeks and a red nose. The eyes looked angry.
“Santa?” Jeff looked perplexed at the giant man, who must have been at least seven feet tall. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“Jeff!’ the voice bellowed. “You're late.”
“Yeah, I’m s-s-sorry,” he stuttered. “I’m not feeling too good. I think I’m tripping out or something.”
“Not only that, but you've also been trying to kill the Christmas spirit,” thundered the giant red man.
“Kill the Christmas … what? It’s only November!” Jeff protested, “this is all a weird dream. I’m going to wake up in a minute.”
“We can’t have you killing Christmas, Jeff.” Santa smiled menacingly. “We’ll have to kill you first.”
“What the hell?” yelped Jeff, looking around wildly.
“Take him,” Santa ordered, and then turned back to his office.
Jeff turned around to see that all the elves were now approaching. They each had wicked smiles on their faces, and large candy canes in their hands. The canes were sharpened at the end into spikes.
“Leave me alone,” Jeff pleaded.
The elves slowly crowded around him. They began to sing in unison.
“Tis the season to be jolly.”
“Leave me alone,” he pleaded again.
“Fa la la la la.”
“No, please.”
“la la la la…”
He grabbed a chair and smacked it down on the nearest elf’s head. The chair leg snapped in half. Collecting the sharp stick from the ground, Jeff started to stab it into the elves, one by one. First, he stuck one in the stomach. The stick felt as though it was stuck for a moment but then he yanked it out. He clubbed the next one across the head. Then he roared as he jumped on top of Chris, and stabbed the sharp stick into his eye. The screams from the elves filled the room. A group rushed Jeff and jumped onto him, tackling him to the ground.
“Quick, get something to tie his hands,” one called.
“Grab some tinsel,” another almost sang.
Moments later, he was lying on the floor with his arms bound behind his back. He tried to struggle free, but the elves sat on top of him so he couldn’t move.
“Just stay still, you arsehole. The police will be here any minute,” he heard a woman say.
Finally, the police arrived and carted him off. The newspaper headline the next day read, “Man kills colleagues in office massacre.”
Behind bars, and awaiting trial, Jeff sat on the floor holding his arms around himself. He ignored the stares that were coming from the guard through the cell window. He rocked back and forth, singing to himself.
“Tis the season to be jolly.”
The End
About the Author
Andrew Lennon is the author of A Life to Waste, Keith and Twisted Shorts. He has featured in numerous anthologies and is successfully becoming a recognised name in horror and thriller writing. Andrew is a happily married man living in the North West of England with his wife Hazel & their children.
Andrew grew up in Ormskirk, which is a small market town. During his school years he enjoyed writing stories. These were kept locked away at home because he did not have the confidence to show the outside world.
Having always being a big horror fan, Andrew spent a lot of his time watching scary movies or playing scary games, but it wasn’t until his mid twenties that he developed a taste for reading. His wife, also being a big horror fan, had a very large Stephen King collection which Andrew began to consume. Once hooked into reading horror, he started to discover new authors like Thomas Ligotti & Ryan C Thomas. It was while reading work from these authors that he decided to try writing something himself and there came the idea for “A Life to Waste”
He enjoys spending his time with his family and watching or reading new horror.
For more information go to: www.andrewlennon.co.uk
A Disappointed Shade of Blue
By
C.S. Anderson
A man walks merrily through the woods
Dragging behind him the traditional yule time log
Wondering perhaps if he should return to his family sooner
Take the short cut home through a dangerous bog
He stops at the edge and
sadly looks down
Shaking his head ruefully at the sight he has found
All holiday cheer fleeing his mind
As he stares down at his grisly find
There is a beautiful girl drowned beneath the cold waters’
She was no one’s wife but she was somebody’s daughter
She had a fist full of promises
All of them broken
She had a heart full of dreams
That will never come true
She has a mouthful of words
Forever left unspoken
Her wide open eyes are a disappointed shade of blue..
About the Author
C.S Anderson dwells in the soggy Pacific Northwest and has been writing since he could form written letters. Hee is married to the most patient woman on Earth is one of the founders of Alucard Pess. He is the author of The Black Irish Chronicles, The Dark Molly Trilogy, The Zombie Extinction Event Novels and Sin City Succubus. He loves to hear from fans and can be reached at [email protected]
https://www.facebook.com/soontobeworldfamousauthorcsanderson/?fref=ts
The Present
By
Israel Finn
November 4, 1965
His fists rained down again and again, until she barely had any strength left to ward off the blows. Mary prayed to a god she’d long since stopped believing in that Rachel wouldn’t come home from school just yet. Above the sink, the kitchen clock, an ugly yellow monstrosity shaped like a duck (a gift from Ted’s mother), said 3:05 PM. That was about the time Rachel usually breezed through the kitchen door. Unless she decided to stop off at her best friend Amy’s house. Occasionally she did.
“How many times have I told you to have supper on the goddamn table when I get home from work, woman?” Ted punctuated his question with a right cross, this one landing on the side of Mary’s neck. It set her whole face on fire.
It wasn’t as if Rachel never witnessed these beatings. She’d seen plenty. Still, it didn’t prevent Mary from wanting to shield her daughter as much as possible from the horrors that took place in the Garver household, a place that Mary had come to think of as her prison.
Ted wouldn’t allow Mary to work. This was partly because Ted’s father, Hank (a real son of a bitch if there ever was one), believed that a woman’s place was in the home, and Ted was a chip off the proverbial block. But the main reason Mary was forbidden to get a job was because Ted didn’t want her turning up in public with fresh bruises every couple of weeks. Yet he knew that she couldn’t very well live her entire life inside the house. So he was careful to administer his punishments below the neck, when he could. Only sometimes, he got carried away.
Like now.
“You don’t appreciate how hard I work for this family”—Ted brought his fist down like a hammer on the top of Mary’s head—“but by God, you will.” He gathered a handful of her hair and began dragging her across the floor toward the stove. That last blow had felt like it almost broke her neck, and Mary cried out as fire rushed down her spine. Her yellow cotton dress rode up above her knees, which scudded painfully across the linoleum.
When they reached the stove Ted flipped on the burner. Mary realized what he intended and she screamed and thrashed wildly. Ted seized her right wrist in his left hand, then drove an elbow into her forehead. Motes exploded before Mary’s eyes, expanding like a galaxy of tiny dying suns until there was nothing left but a thick gray haze blanketing her vision. She felt herself slipping away, all cares and concerns scattering, and she welcomed oblivion.
The flame brought her back, though. Mary shrieked. She bucked and flailed and tried desperately to jerk her hand away from the burner. But Ted was much stronger, and he held her fast, letting the bright blue flame lick the back of her hand.
He didn’t hold it there for long, but it felt to Mary like an eternity. When he let her go she crumpled to the floor and cradled her blackened hand to her chest, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.
Ted gave an exasperated sigh. “Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up,” he said, as if admonishing a child.
Mary lay there a little longer. Not too long, though. It wouldn’t do to ignore her husband’s wishes. At last, she rose and, still favoring her hand, moved like a ghost from the kitchen, down the hallway, and into the bathroom.
“And don’t think this gets you out of fixing supper,” Ted called after her.
Mary had tried to tell him why his supper was late—that the bus she usually caught to the grocery store had broken down, so the company had to send another one out—but it was no use. There were no excuses in Ted Garver’s world.
Half an hour later, Mary was at the stove frying pork chops when Rachel walked in. The girl’s smile collapsed when she saw her mother’s bruised face and bandaged hand, and a small whimper escaped her lips. Mary cast an anxious glance down the hallway toward the living room where a football game blared on the TV, then turned back to her daughter. Mary shook her head slightly while meeting Rachel’s gaze. Don’t say anything, that look said. It’ll just set him off again. Then she offered Rachel a hopeful smile and a nod, which said, I’ll be okay, don’t worry. Tears welled up in Rachel’s eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, her chest hitching once, quietly. Her head bobbed as she swallowed the huge lump in her throat. Then she rubbed away the tears and wiped them on the front of her dress. The sad smile she returned to her mother broke Mary’s heart. It was a heart that had been broken so many times it was a wonder it was still beating.
That night, in the darkness of their bedroom, Ted asked, “How’s your hand?” Mary jumped. She thought he had been asleep.
“Not bad,” she lied. It felt like fire ants were devouring her flesh. But Mary knew better than to complain too much. “I took some ibuprofen.”
He was silent for so long that she thought he finally had fallen asleep. Then he spoke again. “You know I don’t like hurting you.”
“I know.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “I just get a little mad sometimes, that’s all. Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“I know.”
A longer pause. “Do you still love me?”
Here it comes, Mary thought. “Of course.”
Ted heaved a deep sigh. “I’m glad,” he said. “I don’t like thinking about things like that, like you not loving me anymore, or you trying to leave me, and taking Rachel away from me.”
“That won’t ever happen,” Mary said.
“But if it did happen,” he said, “I just don’t know what I’d do.”
Mary waited.
“Probably something really bad,” Ted said.
November 13, 1965
Saturday. Mary was making breakfast when Rachel cried out in the bathroom. Without thinking, Mary flipped the burner off and rushed down the hallway. She flung open the door. And there stood Rachel, still dripping wet from the bath, a towel held loosely against her body with one hand, her other hand held out in front of her, trembling and slick with blood. Mary’s eyes were drawn to the other redness between her daughter’s thin white thighs, and her first thought was, Oh, God, I never talked with her about this.
Rachel looked up with tear-filled eyes. “What’s happening, Mama?”
At that moment, Ted appeared at Mary’s back. “You okay, girl? You cut yourself?”
Mary turned and caught Ted’s gaze…saw his expression slowly change, his face become wooden. “Oh,” he said.
Mary returned her attention to Rachel, who had lifted the towel higher in a self-conscious effort to cover more of herself. Ted made a disgusted sound. “Take care of this,” he growled, pushing Mary forward. He stomped away down the hall, cursing under his breath. Something about “another goddamn woman in the house.”
Mary shut the bathroom door behind her.
November 28, 1965
“What the goddamn hell!” Ted’s voice boomed from the bathroom. B
oth Mary and Rachel jumped, Rachel spilling some of her popcorn from its Tupperware bowl. They’d been sitting on the sofa watching the Ed Sullivan Show on television. Now they looked up as Ted stormed into the room holding a tube of red lipstick in his fist. He held it out before them.
“What is this?” he demanded.
Rachel’s eyes went wide.
Mary opened her mouth to claim the lipstick belonged to her, even though she was perfectly aware of the consequences. Back when they were dating, she had worn makeup, and Ted never complained. Indeed, he seemed to like it. After she became pregnant with Rachel, however, his attitude began to change. He made snide remarks about her looks and her fragrance. Once they were married, he forbade her to use such things anymore, said she had no business tempting men, since she had already snagged one. And in his mind, that was what it all came down to, really. She had caught him with her feminine wiles just as surely as a hunter’s prey is ensnared by the scent of bait. And when she went and “got herself” knocked up, he was truly and hopelessly had.
But Mary never got the words out, because Rachel volunteered, “I just wanted try it, Daddy. Just to see what it looked like.”
Ted hurled the tube across the room, where it struck the wall, leaving a bright red smudge before clattering to the floor.
He turned on Rachel.
“You little whore.”
Ted unbuckled his belt and drew the leather through the loops like he was unsheathing a sword.
Rachel bolted off the couch, popcorn exploding everywhere. She tried to run, but the living room was too small and Ted was too fast. He seized her by her wrist. Rachel cried out. Mary was up instantly, mindlessly charging to her daughter’s defense. She lashed out, clawing at Ted’s face, the first time she had ever retaliated against him. But again, Ted was too quick. He dodged the swipe of her hooked fingers by feinting back, then drove a battering ram of a fist into her right eye. Mary went down hard on her back, the world going gray around the edges, the light fading.
