Venture into a world where the merry and the macabre collide, redefining your holiday season in just one-hundred-word festive bites.
Tag Archive for: christmas
by Les Talma
She made a deal with Santa.
It was uncommon, but she had been very good, while others had been very bad.
So bad that they’d driven her best friend to suicide with cruel taunts and ceaseless torments.
Coal just wouldn’t cut it.
But now, she’d be punishing those naughty-listers. Just her, them, a toolbox full of sharpened candy canes, a sturdy hammer, some Christmas lights, and maybe some black ops elves to help…
After this, she’d never be on the nice list again.
She was fine with that.
And when she was done, she’d have some gloriously screaming Christmas displays.
Les Talma likes atmospheric horror movies, amusingly strange TV shows, comic books, fairy tales that are dark and delicious, and pixie dream girls that go on bizarre blood lust frenzies. He scribbles down things in notebooks, sometimes they end up as finished works.
by Steven Holding
‘Tis goodwill season and the Devil’s fuming.
Despite different addresses (one red-hot, another ice cold), post destined for the pole keeps appearing. Incorrect grammar’s the reason: lists from mixed-up kids who can’t spell S-A-N-T-A. Both wear red, keep company with knee-high entities, but there the similarities end.
Sickened, Old Nick’s quick to teach Saint Nick a lesson: Christmas isn’t white, but crimson.
Come the twenty-fifth, he’s found the sleigh, sniggering, “Naughty or nice, everyone’s due a surprise. Something shocking in their stocking—not Jingle bells, but Hell’s bells and buckets of blood!”
Hidden in Santa’s bed—nine severed reindeer heads.
Steven Holding lives in the United Kingdom. Most recently, his work has appeared in HENSHAW FOUR from Henshawpress and HALLOWEEN FRIGHTS from Black Ink Fiction. You can follow his work at www.stevenholding.co.uk
by Blaise Langlois
The note, propped up against a plate of cookies, read: For Santa. No persuasion was required—St Nick had come to expect such delicacies. After washing down the treats with a tall glass of milk, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He considered the remaining crumbs but doubled over in agony, as a searing pain tore through his abdomen. A foul stench erupted from him and he projectile vomited, covering himself and the floor in Christmas red. Behind the chair, the young girl smiled as “I Caught Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” played softly in the background.
Emerging author, Blaise Langlois, will never turn down the chance to tell a creepy story. You are sure to find her writing in between teaching and raising four beautiful children, or feverishly scratching out ideas (which to the chagrin of her supportive husband, usually occurs just after midnight).
by Lindsey Harrington
She licks her lips and surveys his upside-down, unconscious face. Sugarplum eyes to shuck, button nose to bite off, and bowed lips that will twist and stretch with each procedure, his Ho-Ho-Ows bouncing off the decorated walls.
She pauses and frowns. Is the prey too easy? Her smirk returns. Nah! Serves the fat bastard right for rushing headlong down her chimney.
The laws of physics warned him that he’d get stuck eventually. But the man in red thought the rules didn’t apply to him. And it’s fate, not physics, that trapped him here.
Santa’s delivered his last piece of coal.
Lindsey Harrington is a writer on the east coast of Canada. She loves writing dark stories, including those from the villain’s perspective. She is currently pitching a short story collection, Coming Apart, to publishers. Follow her writing journey at
by W. Ed George
Germans herald the Holy Child with breads, pickles and wurst. “Yummy,” decrees my mother-in-law from Dusseldorf each year; I call it “Spam Christmas.”
She takes umbrage; injects politics, money, my drinking every time. Holidays thus ratchet our rivalry.
But this year I’ve set the menu. I’ll mince garlic till our kitchen stinks, baste fatty shoulder (two) and slather on the Morton’s Tender Quick. Voila, Spam Christmas!
“Mum woulda loved this,” mein liebster will gush. “Sad she stayed home.”
I’ll confess on Boxing Day how, after much badgering, his mother had graced our yuletide table—rendered, uncharacteristically silent, and tastefully dressed.
W. Ed George
The author is a recovering journalist based in California. He caught the fiction bug during the pandemic.
by Simon Clarke
Christmas tomorrow, we need to make space for the family. They had planned a move to Australia; I blamed our son, Mary blamed the daughter-in-law. We would never see the grandchildren again. It wasn’t fair. We’d be just another lonely, miserable old couple despite all our years of help and support.
It’s funny how if you think about something long enough, anything is possible. So we prepared, went on an adult education course, “Taxidermy for the Family”. Anyway, I think we should get them out early this year, so they are sitting round the table when we get up tomorrow.
Simon Clarke lives and writes in Norfolk, United Kingdom. He enjoys writing poetry and fiction and has been published by Hedgehog Press, Black Hare Press, Fifty Word Stories and Breaking Rules Publishing. He regularly submits to UK and international publications and enjoys reading poetry at open mic events.
by Sophie Wagner
“What do you think, Stephen? Have we been good this year?”
“For his sake,” he said, “let’s hope so.”
Santa lay spread eagle atop a pile of coal, held in place by candy canes that were shoved through his forearms, his one remaining eye still twinkling.
Walter scanned both lists, then shook his head sadly. “Another year, another Christmas on the naughty list. Care to guess what we won?”
He grabbed Santa’s sack and shook another pound of coal onto the pile.
“Such a shame,” said Stephen, pouring lighting fluid over the pyre and striking a match. “Maybe next year?”
Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at Black Ink Fiction, The Macabre Ladies and For Women Who Roar. She hopes you have a horror filled day!
by Brianna Witte
I snatched up the large present under the Christmas tree, the bright red wrapping paper dropping to the ground in shreds. I opened the white box, my little heart racing with excitement. My breath caught, the pure astonishment paralysing me.
A human head sat perfectly preserved in the bag; the dark blood accumulated at the bottom reminding me of the fresh meat lining the grocery aisle. The face of my fourth-grade bully stared back at me, his mouth open and eyes wide. I jumped up in excitement, gleefully hugging my dad.
“I love it! This is the best Christmas ever!”
Brianna is an active member of the Writers Community of Durham Region. She had received a commendation for her short story, The Hunt, in the 2019 Author of Tomorrow Award by the Wilbur and Niso Smith Foundation. To date, Brianna has had many short stories published in various anthologies.
by D. Matthew Urban
December 24, 11:54 p.m. Not yet.
I stand over my baby brother’s crib.
December 24, 11:55 p.m. Not yet.
He’s sleeping. So innocent.
December 24, 11:56 p.m. Not yet.
I never thought I’d have a baby brother.
December 24, 11:57 p.m. Not yet.
I thought it’d be just me and Mom, forever.
December 24, 11:58 p.m. Not yet.
“My miracle,” Mom said. “My present from heaven.”
December 24, 11:59 p.m. Not yet.
Almost time. I raise my arm, hold the knife high.
December 25, 12:00 a.m.
Christmas morning. Time to open the present.
D. Matthew Urban
D. Matthew Urban grew up in Texas but now lives, strangely enough, in Queens, New York. He has written weird fiction in both locations.