Mainlining Christmas

We're almost done. This is day 23 of "25 Christmas Eves," my series of genre fiction about Christmas Eve. This one's called "Scrap." It's a short piece of SF. I think it qualifies as cyber-punk, in fact. Enjoy. By: Erin L. Snyder The box was four inches across, and the wires sticking out of the bottom were frayed. Its battery was long gone, so Ail pulled the cord connected to her hip pack. She sighed - if she connected it directly, it might short and fry the board. She could always hold off until she came across a breaker. She flipped the device over in her hands and decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. If the damn thing fried, it fried. What would she be out? A forty-dollar piece of junk she’d just picked up. What’s forty dollars buy you, anyway: burger and a Coke? “Mother. I located several phones.” The voice came from beneath a pile of rusting electrical equipment. “Fine. Pull them into the clearing. And I’m not your mother,” Ail said. “That ma

Welcome to day 22 of Mainlining Christmas's series titled, "25 Christmas Eves." We've got a very special Christmas Eve for you this time, boys and girls. A nice little religious piece called, "Wings in the Night." Hope you like it. By: Erin L. Snyder “Mr. Juliard?” the woman asked, extending a hand over his hospital bed. She was beautiful, or at the very least attractive. Exotic would be the best word: her ethnicity was difficult to pin down, even for Hugh, who’d always been good at that sort of thing. Part Spanish, part Indian, maybe? Hugh didn’t ask, of course. He simply raised his hand. It was tiring, but mainly because the painkillers sapped his energy. “Hello. I didn’t catch your name,” he said. “Burkwitz. Melody Burkwitz.” She smiled. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard of me.” Hugh shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not offended,” she said. “I’ve done a few morning shows. My books tend to gather attention. It’s not always the sort I’d like,

For those of you keeping score with an advent calendar, this is day 21 of "25 Christmas Eves," my series of Christmas-Eve-inspired short stories designed to get you in the holiday spirit. And speaking of holiday spirits.... By: Erin L. Snyder “You’re kidding, right? You know what time it is?” Mark was frantic, which wasn’t making his drive through the storm any easier. His cellphone was pinned between his ear and shoulder, while he clutched the steering wheel. On the other end of the line, his ex-wife was just as stressed. “Yes, Mark. I know what time it is. And I’m sure I’m ruining your plans to spend Christmas Eve in a bar. But right now, I really need you to step up and be a father for Tom.” “So now I’m Tom’s father again,” Mark said. He regretted it as soon as he said it, but it was too late. He cringed for the worst, but Patricia only sighed. “Look. Jerry’s brother is back in the hospital, and... I just think it would be better if Tom wasn’t here in case things g

It's day of twenty of 25 Christmas Eves. Just five more stories to go after this one. Today, I thought I'd try my hand at steampunk. Hope it meets your expectations. By: Erin L. Snyder “Attention! Tonight’s Father Christmas March has been called off due to weather! Christmas Eve is cancelled! Once again, the March and carnival have been cancelled!” The man yelled his news through a bullhorn from the back of a steel carriage, which puttered slowly past what remained of the Tildrick Thread Factory, condemned after a fire six years prior. From the roof, a young girl ran along a path of board and boxes which marked areas unlikely to collapse. A patchwork of holes on either side demonstrated the importance of this precaution. The path ended at the largest hole, where a ladder had been propped up against the edge. She grabbed hold and started down. There were a half dozen kids near the bottom, most about her age. She ignored them and darted towards the far wall, where she f

Hope you're in the mood for a little magical realism, because that's what I've got today. For those of you who haven't been following along, every day from December 1st through the 25th I'm providing a new piece of short genre fiction about Christmas Eve. By: Erin L. Snyder The weeks leading up to the last day I ever saw Walter were bizarre to begin with. Come to think of it, the decade leading up to that Christmas Eve was pretty bizarre. Walter has always been... odd. Hell, I started hanging out with him because I felt sorry for the guy. That was... eighth grade, I guess. I mean, I was never what you’d call ‘one of the cool kids,’ but people seemed to like me. I had friends back then, groups I belonged to; hell, even a girlfriend. Walter didn’t really have any of that. I mean, there were people he ate with at lunch, people he hung out with and all that, but he never really seemed to care about any of them. There wasn’t a lot he did care about. Certainly no

It's the 18th day of 25 Christmas Eves, my attempt to provide you with 25 genre stories about Christmas Eve. Today, you're getting a very short piece called "Slouching." Give it a read: By: Erin L. Snyder “I’ve been saying it, Bob. Been saying it for six years now. Ever since I moved into Elbington.” The ground shakes the tiniest bit, like a trailer’s driving by. But you look down one side of Route 81 and up the other, and there’s not a blessed thing. Not a headlight to your left or a tail light to your right. And you know perfectly well there’s not another road east of Milford can hold a truck with more than two axles. “Told Trev just last week up at Jones’ General Store, when he was all, ‘Merry CHRIST-mas.’ I told Trev he was wasting his breath. That there wouldn’t be a merry anything this go-round.” It’s silent for a second, then you hear the rustling. You step off of Stanley’s porch to have a look around. There’s nothing for a second, but the rustl

What is this? Night 17? Anyway, every day between the 1st and 25th this month, I'm giving you a new piece of fiction. It's a little series I like to call "25 Christmas Eves," and today I've got something particularly special for you: a piece called "Department of Letters." This one opens in a mail room, the day before Christmas.... By: Erin L. Snyder Iyla’s joints cracked like breaking ginger snaps when she stretched her fingers, but the sound was lost in the noise of grinding machines and rippling paper. She was tired - they all were - but the season was almost done. The shipment had come in a few hours earlier: it was a big one - always was on Christmas Eve - but it was also the last. She was a Letter Specialist, 3rd class, in the mail subsection of DLWL (Department of Letters and Wish List). She knew six languages, which was why she was still third class: the leads knew at least two dozen each, and it was rumored the director could read every