Flashy & Flirty Christmas Anthology

by Ellie Mack

  Cayden nodded, burying his face into Tristan’s shoulder. He didn’t want to admit how tired he really was, but he knew that it would cause trouble to act up more. “A big one.”

  The brunet chuckled, heading towards the bathroom to give Cayden his bath and get him ready for bed. It was the same fight every year on whether or not it would be a big tree or not. This year would be no exception, and he would have to try explaining the house wasn’t big enough. “We’ll see,” he compromised in hopes of getting Tristan to sleep.

  By the end of bath time, story time, and “one more glass of water,” Tristan was finally able to start heading downstairs. A sound in the kitchen stopped him, and he went back to his bedroom, grabbing the baseball bat. It had been the compromise that he'd made with Kerian; they would keep a baseball bat there instead of the handgun in case they heard something odd. Slowly, he made he way downstairs with the bat at the ready, sneaking up behind the person.

  “Going to batting practice?” a short blonde asked, turning to smile at him.

  “You have got to knock that off, Alyson,” Tristan said, putting the bat down and breathing out. “I didn’t know you were coming over. I could have hurt you.”

  She waved him away, finishing the coffee pot set-up and starting the brewing process. Alyson went into the fridge, looking for what they would be able to snack on while talking. “As if you would really be able to do it. I know you too well, and that’s why he wouldn’t push the other issue.”

  Tristan ran his fingers through his hair. “I can’t help it, Aly. Bad memories come from those things, and his job doesn’t make it any easier for me.”

  “He’s a weapons expert. It’s not like you have someone who doesn’t know what to do with one,” she pointed out as she took a package of pre-made cookie dough from the fridge and started making them. “You knew this when you two got together.”

  He nodded silently, remembering all too well his reaction and the consequences of finding out what Kieran did for a living. “Yeah.”

  Alyson sighed knowing that look all too well. “It worked out. You have a beautiful little boy upstairs, and an amazing man who will be coming home to you as soon as he can.”

  “I know. I just didn’t expect this so close to Christmas.”

  “Get used to it because with him, you never know when he’ll be called in,” Alyson replied. “So, when are you going to start the Christmas decorating?”

  “I promised Cayden that I would take him tomorrow to get the tree.” He pushed his hair back from his eyes and leaned back into the wall behind him. “I would much rather wait until he comes home, but Cay needs a distraction from him being gone.”

  Alison nodded. “If you want company, let me know. Brad and I plan on going up to that farm again this year.”

  Just as she put the cookies in the oven, her mobile phone rang. As Alyson answered it, Tristan checked his phone and sighed. She hung up grabbing her coat. “Hate to do this to you, but I need to run. Savannah’s being a mommy’s girl again.”

  Tristan walked her to the door, laughing. “She’s barely six months old. I’m surprised you didn’t bring her with you.”

  Alyson hugged him tightly. “I shall never surrender our coffee nights to anyone!” She grinned. “Take it easy, and I’ll call you tomorrow morning.”

  After making sure that she was okay and driving down the street, Tristan went back into the kitchen and set his laptop up on the counter. He poured a cup of coffee and checked the cookies before settling down to look through his email. When one popped up from his lover, Tristan frowned and opened it.

  “Hey, Lover. I know we were supposed to chat tonight, but something came up. I’m sorry about this because I know how much you use those chats to make sure I’m okay. Let’s try tomorrow night, same time. God knows people in this place owe me a favor, and I can use their time slot. Love you.”

  Tristin opened the attachment, and the opening strings of I’ll be home for Christmas came through. He watched the video, biting his lip as photos taken throughout their relationship played. It has always been a thing for them to send the song to each other since the first time Kieran left to train troops. “I love you too,” he whispered to the computer.

  Two weeks after he got the email, Tristan sat back in his office. Cayden had agreed to spend the night at Alyson and Brad’s so he could try to get some work done. All he wanted at that moment, though, was to talk to Kiernan. “Damn you for not calling me,” he muttered.

  “Would it have made a difference?” the soft voice asked from the doorway.

  Tristan turned quickly, seeing his lover and moved toward him even quicker. He stopped short, seeing the arm in a sling and swallowed hard. “You…”

  “Small accident at the range. No big deal. I’ll be back to normal in four to six weeks,” he teased. “No Christmas this year?”

  Tristan stepped up, kissing him hard, his fingers threading into the sandy blond strands of his lover’s hair. “Waiting on you. We tried but it’s not the same.”

  “Let’s get our son and then start preparing.” Kieran grinned, linking their fingers. “By the way, I’m home for good this time. Merry Christmas.”

  Tristan smiled became brighter. “Merry Christmas.”

  About Linda Greene

  Linda lives in Pennsylvania with her puppy Mia. She takes care of her parents at home and in her spare time, she knits, reads, and does book reviews. Her inspiration comes from all sort of media. As a survivor of cancer, she tries to help others with the same disease.

  Social Media links:

  Blog: librarysnek.wordpress.com

  A harsh, frigid wind tore through the building, ripping at the curtains. Its sharp fingers scratching at the windows, whistling triumphant nothings as ice filled air danced a fine line between gifting a pain filled battering to the tired grey little building, and offering a gentle teasing caress to the once lordly seat. On the outside walls, every shade of grey and green and brown bore delicate facades, lovingly carved by a previous owner whose new bride had desired to demonstrate the beauty of their home inside and out. She had brought warm fires, gentle laughter, and the smell of gorse heather into the heart of every guest that had flung open her door, until quite suddenly, she had been left alone. Her eyes filled with an aching sadness and a distant joy of memories once past.

  “...I really can't stay…”

  The radio crackled softly as it shook between stations.

  “The weather outside is some of the worst we’ve seen in many years…"

  “... (But baby it’s cold outside) ...”

  “-Terms and conditions apply, please see our company information for more details—"

  The firelight danced over the mahogany figurines on the sitting room table and cast soft shadowy silhouettes onto the wall as she fiddled carefully with the knobs on the radio.

  “...My mother will start to worry…My father will be pacing the floor…”

  The male shadow reached out a hand to his lady, swaying in the firelight.

  “…I wish I knew how…,” the woman danced away but was drawn back gently murmuring, “…to break this spell…”

  “… (mind if I move in closer?) …” the man sang softly, brushing her cheek with his hand.

  Penny touched her own cheek lightly, a long-lost smile gracing her lips. “...My sister will be suspicious-” She had pestered her for months.

  “... (gosh your lips look delicious) …” His had been so easy to kiss.

  “...My brother will be there at the door…” Her father had glared from behind him.

  “... (It’s up to your knees out there!) ...” It had been freezing, the coldest they’d ever had, feet upon feet of snow, just like today.

  “…You’ve really been grand…” He had been. Such a gentleman too, he walked her all the way home.

  “… (I thrill when you touch my hand) …” Her hands tingled as she stretched her hands out in front of her, rubbing the tips of her numb fingers with her thumbs
as if searching for a long-lost feeling.

  “How can you do this to me?” Penny’s eyes were closed, but her heart was burning.” ... (think of my lifelong sorrow) …”

  Clear liquid leaked from the corner of her eyes, the cold from the window freezing them into glistening ice crystals upon her face. She laid her hand gently upon the cool window, watching for a car that would never come. Her eyes rested both on the road and how her breath fogged the pane, as her fingers absentmindedly drew swirling circles upon the glass, her forehead resting against the heavy worn frame.

  Breath in, fade. Breath out, fog. Breath in, fade. Breath out, fog.

  Breath in—

  The fire had burned low, until a dim, red light was the only thing illuminating the room. The candles had long since been blown out by a gentle puff of air. The cat had quieted and had curled up by the worn slippers of her owner, offering a silent guardian and a quiet vigil as dusk turned to night, and then became dawn.

  “...Penny, baby, it’s warm inside…"

  About Sophie Wootton

  Sophie Wootton, London, UK, spends her time (between the excessive number of calls she receives at work and not getting much sleep at all) reading and doodling on the edges of scrap paper. With her poetry and short fiction steadily filling up notebooks galore, she hopes, as many writers do, that someday one precious inspirational idea for a crime/adventure/thriller plot… that novel which seems oh so distant, will float on by… preferably to suddenly veer off course and hit her straight in the face with its brilliance.

  The best art, I think you’ll find,

  Comes from the deepest parts of our mind,

  Where feelings are locked

  And emotions are cold

  And every word we print is sold

  From our very soul to yours

  Locked safe behind silvery doors.

  As red as blood our feelings

  True, are given over just for you,

  A stormy masterpiece weaved with pain

  With laughter

  Hope and those who reign

  Kings over your precious traded heart

  Queens guiding from the very start

  Have nothing on a laureate true,

  Who-ever lights the way for you.

  By Sophie Wootton

  I stamped my feet in the snow and eyeballed the decorations all around me as I waited outside my little sister’s school. Some of them, I remembered from when I myself had been a third-grader here, ten years ago—the wreath over the door, the red and green lights wrapped around the entrance. Snowflakes, the kind you make by folding a piece of paper and cutting bits out of it and then covering it, and everything nearby, with glitter.

  But the longer I waited, the more new things I noticed.

  A Star of David made of blue lights was mounted on a post in the courtyard. Looking inside I saw a menorah on the front desk in the office. Nice, not just Christmas decorations anymore.

  A multi-colored green, yellow, and orange banner with a line of candles painted on it, hung in the hall. Ah, Kwanzaa. Cool.

  No Krampus to punish the bad children the night before Christmas—perhaps that was just as well. How about Festivus? No?

  Oh well. Being away at college had enlarged my world—enough to likely put me on the naughty list. At least it was good to see the old narrow view of things had expanded a bit back home.

  When did they get out? Three o’clock, right? One semester in college had totally thrown my memories of grade school schedules out the window. I could stay up as late as I wanted now, and frequently did. It was just weird being home for the holiday.

  I’d slept in late that morning after helping Mom vacuum the house from last night’s family party. She’d been a bit annoyed that we had to hold it the Sunday night before Christmas because that was the only time that Aunt Marge could make it.

  I’d told her I thought it had been fine, and I couldn’t believe Dad had still come in a Santa Claus costume. She’d actually giggled. What the hell?

  Finally, the bell rang, and I stepped back with all the parents and nannies who were picking up the kids after school as a stream of children came running out the door. No Mary. Where was she?

  I waited a few minutes and was about to go and look for her, when I saw her trudging slowly down the hall, holding hands with another little girl whose red eyes showed she had clearly been crying.

  “Hey! Mary, over here!” I waved my arm over my head because she wasn’t even looking around to try and find me.

  My little sister hugged the other girl, who wiped her eyes and trudged off down the street with her shoulders down beside her nanny.

  “Hey, bug. How was your day? What’s with your friend?” I hugged Mary and got little response in return.

  “Fine. She’s sad.”

  Dang. That didn’t sound like a kid right before Christmas. “Why is she sad?” The two of us started walking down the street toward our house.

  “She said her parents are getting divorced. Her mom was doing the S – E – X thing with somebody that wasn’t her daddy.”

  “You…you know about sex?” Holy crap, when did they start sex ed in school? I couldn’t remember.

  Mary sniffled. “Yeah, we just had a lesson on it in health class. You’re not supposed to do it except with your partner or spouse. Not with other people.”

  Ah, so that was what they were telling kids now. “Well, I’m sorry for your friend. How was your day?”

  We had reached the corner house with the big holiday display that I always loved to see, but Mary didn’t even stop and look. She didn’t answer.

  “Hey, bug, you seem awfully upset too. Is something else wrong?”

  After a silence, I could barely hear the next words from her. “I saw Mommy.”

  Okay…

  “You saw Mommy what?”

  “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night under the mistletoe. After he came to the party and gave out all the presents, Mommy kissed him and Daddy wasn’t there. And that means they’re going to have to get divorced.”

  Oh, crap crap crap. She still believed in Santa Claus—didn’t she know that was Dad dressed up? What the hell did they tell me when I’d asked if Santa was real? I took a deep breath and spun her around to face me.

  “Oh, bug, it’s time you learned the truth. You know the whole thing about Santa traveling all around the world in one night, giving toys to all the good kids? That doesn’t make sense, does it? I mean, even with magic, how could he do that, right?”

  She sniffed. “I’ve been wondering about that. Even with reindeer.”

  “Exactly. See, there’s more to it than you’ve been thinking. Somebody needs to fill you in on the real truth. Do you think you’re ready for it?”

  She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and nodded.

  “Santa can’t do it all himself. We all have to help—those of us who believe in Christmas, at least. You know how the family gave each other presents last night? It wasn’t Christmas yet. We were just helping out with the spirit of Christmas. The same thing happens on Christmas Eve. All the moms and dads—even the sisters—who believe, help Santa by putting the presents out under the tree. It’s like there’s a little bit of Santa in all of us.”

  She thought about it for a few minutes. “What does this have to do with them getting divorced?”

  “Well, sometimes parents get so excited to help Santa that they even dress up in a Santa suit. And when daddies do that, mommies want to kiss them.”

  She turned it over in her mind. I could see the light bulb forming over her head—then she burst out laughing and yelled, “Eeeew!” And ran down the street toward our house, shrieking with laughter the whole way.

  I figured I deserved a spot on the nice list after all.

  About Carol Gyzander

  Carol Gyzander was a prolific reader of classic science fiction and Agatha Christie mysteries in her early days. Her kids have flown the coop and left her with two cats, which of course me
ant she had to turn to writing. She’s also the Editor-in-Chief of Writerpunk Press, which produces anthologies of punk stories inspired by classics.

  Carol has written cyberpunk versions of Macbeth and Henry V for the first two Writerpunk Press volumes, wrote “The Clockwork Raven” based upon Edgar Allan Poe’s story, and a steampunk Tom Sawyer.

  She has other stories in various anthologies, and an amateur detective novel in the works. The most astounding thing to her is that she likes writing horror stories!

  See what else Carol is working on at

  www.CarolGyzander.com.

  Other Books by Carol Gyzander

  I have stories in the following anthologies:

  Sound and Fury: Shakespeare Goes Punk

  Once More Unto the Breach: Shakespeare Goes Punk 2

  Merely This and Nothing More: Edgar Allan Poe Goes Punk

  What We've Unlearned: English Class Goes Punk

  Hideus Progeny: Classic Horror Goes Punk

  Stardust Always: A Charity Anthology for Cancer Research

  The Longest Night Watch, Volume 2: A Charity Anthology for the Alzheimers' Association

  Christmas was over. The January retail slow down had hit. When I cashed my drawer at J.C. Penney, I was in a hurry to get to my youth meeting. I was twenty, but my favorite people were there. I made the long trek to the employee parking lot to my Chrysler Calais. When I took off, I heard breaking glass. Apparently, someone had place bottles in front of my tires.

  Later, I would figure out that ugly green car that had gone speeding off had left them for me. That same car tracked me onto I-55.

  The driver hollered out the window, "Hey lady, you have a flat tire." He wove in and out of traffic relentlessly until I pulled over.

  I am embarrassed to tell you this next part, but I got out despite my better judgment. This guy was unintimidating, even pitiful. His university sweatshirt and pants were baggy. His high top shoe-laces were not tied. He was homely, and huge black circles indicated he wasn’t getting much sleep.