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Showing posts with the label Fiction

Fiction: One Night's Work

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I ask you, what's Christmas Eve without pirates? To correct that omission, here's a short fantasy piece titled "One Night's Work," the newest addition to our 25 Christmas Eves project.  By: Erin L. Snyder You could see it in the men’s faces even if you couldn’t feel it: they were getting older. There were few of us, fewer every time you’d look around. The English colonies pinched us from the south and the Americans’ navy pressed us in the north. Their ships were getting faster and their captains smarter. The days of the pirate were waning, and we were dying. The era of legends was a hundred years gone, and we felt dwarfed by their shadows. Against the tales of Black Bart or Morgan, how could we see ourselves but as common thieves? I was the youngest man on the Red Gull, and I’d been at sea more than a decade. I’d sailed with Laffite before I landed on the Gull, and I knew as well as any of the others that our days had all but passed. I think we all kne...

Fiction: In a Field Beneath the Stars

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It's day eight, which means we're almost 1/3rd done with 25 Christmas Eves. Today's piece is titled "In a Field Beneath the Stars." Hope you guys like it. By: Erin L. Snyder The highway was almost empty and dark clouds stretched out in every direction. There were small patches of grayish snow along the road. Every now and then, Tina’s car would make a clunking sound, but she’d been assured by the mechanic it wouldn’t give them any trouble. Susan was sitting in the passenger seat, just staring through the windshield. She was wearing headphones, but her CD player was almost out of batteries. She could hear the sound wavering, dying. Dead. She pulled them off her head and eyed the radio. “How you holding up?” Tina asked from behind the wheel. She’d interpreted her sister’s action as a sign she wanted to talk. “Huh? Oh, fine.” She lied with all the subtlety a fourteen year-old girl was capable of. “I’m not in love with this situation, either. But thi...

Fiction: Milk, Cookies, Whiskey

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It's day seven of 25 Christmas Eves, and I've got a short fantasy piece I think you'll enjoy. By: Erin L. Snyder How do you know the real one’s the real one? I mean, twenty-seven years of shopping malls, Christmas movies, candy commercials and the like: how do you know all those Santas are fake? The truth is, you just do. You see them there in their garish red suits and stupid hats, and at a glance you know they’re fake. Even kids know. They might lie about it, even to themselves, but no one’s ever really been taken in by the old farts they bring into department stores every winter. Because deep down, we all just know. We can tell the difference between a fake Santa and the real thing. I guess I never gave that much thought when all I’d ever seen were scores of the knock-offs. But... Jesus. You walk into your living room middle of the night Christmas Eve and find a jolly fat-ass in a red suit and mittens washing down a plate of oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies ...

Fiction: Ice on the Feathers

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We're up to day six in our series, 25 Christmas Eves. For those of you just tuning in, I'm posting a new piece of genre fiction every day until Christmas, and every damn one of them is about a Christmas Eve. This one's a fantasy piece. By: Erin L. Snyder Toby’s Bridge isn’t called Toby’s Bridge, at least not officially. It’s called something else. No one gives a damn what that is, cause it’s on Toby’s land. Sure, it’s not really his bridge. It’s the town’s bridge. Town’s bridge, town’s road, and all that. Town’s river. But everything all around it - the forest the road cuts through, the old mill (that hasn’t been up and running in twenty years), the marsh... all that really is Toby’s. People in Renville are fond of calling Toby the poorest rich man in America. Might be something to that. Just might. Toby’s is one of them old covered bridges. Sturdy, good build and all that. Don’t really make them that way much anymore. Not in Renville, anyway. Everyone wants bri...

Fiction: The Christmas Thief

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Day five of 25 Christmas Eves brings us a short horror/fantasy piece. Hope you enjoy. By Erin L. Snyder I know you’re not going to believe any of this. And I know I should be keeping my mouth shut, asking for an attorney or something. I’ll probably wish I had, come tomorrow. But right now... it’s all I can do not to pull my hair out. I got to tell someone what happened tonight, and, well, you’re the one asking. So, Merry Christmas. Here goes. I got the idea for the suit off some old TV show. I couldn’t tell which if I cared: it was something I saw when I was a kid, and it stuck with me. Guy dresses up like Santa, busts into a house, and cleans the place out. If a kid wakes up and sees the guy, “No worries, son. It’s me, Kris Kringle. There’s a light on the DVD player that doesn’t work on one side.” Send the brat to bed, and I’m gone before anyone’s the wiser. Yeah, it’s a lousy thing to do to a family at Christmas. But I guess I’m just a lousy guy at heart. But... look....

Fiction: Lights on the Roof

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For day four of 25 Christmas Eves, I've got another science fiction piece for you. Hope you like it. By: Erin L. Snyder Christmas Eve, 1954 Brian Wicks lay in bed with a candy cane dangling out of his mouth like a cigar and an issue of Captain Marvel clutched tight in his hands. Sure, it was dark, but the multi-colored glow from the lights dangling right beneath his window was more than enough to make out the words, though his mom would have thrown a fit if she knew. “You’ll go blind!” she’d have hollered. “Blind for Christmas!” Of course, she’d have been far more upset if she knew about the candy he’d snuck into bed. “Rot your teeth out! What’s Santa gonna bring you then? Dentures?” But what his mom didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them. Well, unless his teeth really did fall out or that blindness-thing was actually true. But Brian had heard enough of his mom’s stories to dismiss the lot of them out of hand. Besides, if there was one night of the year he should...

Fiction: Mistletoe

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Day three of "25 Christmas Eves" appears below. Every day between the 1st and 25th of December, I'm posting new genre fiction. Today's is a short piece entitled, "Mistletoe." By: Erin L. Snyder It’s bitter cold, but that doesn’t stop Patty from staking out the door, mug of eggnog in hand, to greet each new arrival as they enter. Wendel’s the next to show up, gift clutched tightly (yet another bottle of wine, wrapped in metallic green foil), and he practically runs into Patty, who stops him with a wry smile. “Wendel,” she says pointing upward. “Mistletoe.” She grabs his tie and pulls him into a kiss tasting of sweetened alcohol, sugar cookies, swedish meatballs (courtesy of Beth, who’s been eying Patty’s greetings, and may have just mouthed something uncomplimentary beneath her breath about her former roommate), candy canes, and a single bite of Jacob’s fruit cake that Patty had indulged in “just to see if it’s really as bad as they say” (much to he...

Fiction: Heirlooms

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Every day at midnight between December 1st and December 25th I'll be posting new genre fiction about Christmas Eve. Today's a short horror story called "Heirlooms". By: Erin L. Snyder The box was gold, decorated with pearl-white ribbons and silver beads, many of which had fallen off over the years. Teresa took a handkerchief and wiped off some of the accumulated dust from the outside before continuing. “Alice. Alice, dear,” she said. “Please come sit with me.” Her daughter came over and sat cross-legged on the floor. “No, Dear. Up on the couch.” Teresa never raised her voice around her daughter. Alice was special. She was smart, but there’d always been something different about the girl. She didn’t see the world quite the same way as other children. A few years earlier, Teresa had taken Alice to see an old college friend of hers who taught psychology at the University. She’s not autistic, her friend had said, somewhat apologetically. At least, I don’t think sh...