I Saw Lightning Fall

Advent Ghosts 2025: The Stories

2025-12-13T06:32:00.011-05:00

Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like. This post will be updated regularly from December 13-19.

When she was back and her heartrate had returned to something approaching normal and her hands had finally stopped shaking, Jocelyn examined her haul. The mobo itself was a loss, but the little square she had managed to pry from it looked pristine. A Ryzen 17400 U. A private-enterprise processor, not state-sponsored silicon, which was technically legal to possess, but could land you in hot water with the Green Shirts during one of their involuntary inventories. Not that they ever made it out here. But it was a prerequisite for her purposes.

And it still tried to flash her drive and connect her to the Net as soon as she seated it.

She swore at whatever bureaucrat had mandated piggyback partitions and hammered F12 on her keyboard.

The monitor lit with a green mobius knot, a triangle within a triangle, each looping back onto the other. Straight to it, no login, no password.

Jocelyn punched F2 with no discernable impact. Outside of her hut's daub-and-wattle walls, the generator huffed methanol exhaust.

"HI, CITIZEN!" the screen spelled out in gaudy capitals. "I'D LOVE TO CHAT WITH YOU, BUT I CAN'T SEEM TO VERIFY YOUR IDENTITY. AT THE PROMPT, PLEASE INPUT YOUR BIOMETRIC BLOCKCHAIN."

Jocelyn sighed in and out the smell of yesterday's cabbage and pulled the plug. Then she slotted the killstick before powering everything back up. Another trade from the tinker and a capital felony if discovered. But it worked, booting her straight past the AI prompt. She immediately disabled a score of drivers and connected her Bluetooth to the mesh. She watched as the nodes daisy-chained one to another, growing into an irregular rimed particle until the screen was lit like Christmas lights. Ancient protocol, old and slow, messy and prone to errors. Imperfect. Just everything of value on this earth was.

She felt the smile creep across her face as she began to type, "Missed you guys. Sorry I've been away so long. Have I got a story to tell you ..."

• "A.D. 568: The Great Sea-Voyage to the West of St. Brendan and his Monks" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "The Unheimlich Maneuver" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "The Abduction" by Henry Andelsmith (see below)
• "Plagiarism" by Kaye George (see below)
• "Weekend Update | ‘Tis the Season for Enrichment" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Brown Bones" and "Exhibit 777-C: Partial NeuroTap Dump of Sgt. William Davis, USDHS, Greater Midwest Theater (January 6, 21XX)" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "Darkness Culls" by Ryan E. Holman on Ryan E. Holman, Author
• "Bows of Holly," "Let it Woe, Let it Woe, Let it Woe!," and "Somewhere in my Memory" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "And To Think It Comes Alive At Midnight" by Joseph D'Agnese at Joseph D'Agnese: Writer
• "Red Green Red" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish
• "The Covenant" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "Hope Deferred" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "Unearthing" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "Bach's Last Cello" by Paula Gail Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "Perfect Dragon" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "It Doesn't Bode Well" by Linda Casper on Thirdage blogger
• "Tree topper," "Their names are Mary and Joseph," and "Get what you pay for" by Eric Douglas on Books By Eric
• "The Wife Killer" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "To Face Unafraid the Plans that We Made" by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• "Grandmother's Toast" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "Last Christmas" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse: Observations and opinions derived by them
• "What Do You Want?" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Ghost Town" by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff

* * *
"A.D. 568: The Great Sea-Voyage to the West of St. Brendan and his Monks"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Qui navigant mare enarrent pericula ejus, et audientes auribus nostris admirabimur. (Let them that sail on the sea, tell the dangers thereof: and when we hear with our ears, we shall admire.)
- Ecclesiasticus, the Book of the Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach 43:26

Christmas Eve: a woody island glimpsed through fog, a hard pull on oars, and the monks scrambled ashore, piled kindling on the ridge. Brendan stayed on board. The fire roared – then the island rumbled, stirred, began to sink. The monks staggered in terror shorewards – too late to escape abysmal death?

“Rorate,” intoned Brendan, sprinkling holy water: “Jasconius, behave! You treated Jonah well enough!” The sea-beast rumbled to a purr, and was still.

So, every Christmas of their seven-year voyage they celebrated on his back, with Brendan’s mother, Ite, angelically fetched to join them – and Judas Iscariot (given a Festal respite).

Note: Following in the footsteps of various anonymous mediaeval authors – and Charles Kingsley, Matthew Arnold, Sebastian Evans, Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis – I’ve freely retold part of the famous story. See a handily word-searchable Internet Archive scan of Denis O’Donoghue’s Brendaniana (1895) for sources and discussion of details. And, for fun, see the October 2025 Mythlore issue online for an article on Tolkien’s friend, the Sts.-Brendan-and-Virgil scholar, Maartje Draak. “Rorate” begins the Advent chant from Isaiah 45:8: “Rorate, caeli, desuper, et nubes pluant justum; aperiatur terra, et germinet Salvatorem, et justitia oriatur simul: ego Dominus creavi eum.” (Drop down dew, ye heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain the just: let the earth be opened, and bud forth a saviour: and let justice spring up together: I the Lord have created him.)

("A.D. 568: The Great Sea-Voyage to the West of St. Brendan and his Monks" copyright 2025 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"The Unheimlich Maneuver"
By Dale Nelson

My stuffy widower psychology professor had asked: “Miss Smith, will you babysit my two-year-old this evening?”

I consented, reluctantly.

Little Gavin was lively. I settled myself, leaving the dinner table mess as I’d found it.

I looked up – “Gavin! No!” as he stuck a butterknife into an electrical socket and crumpled.

I ignorantly applied the Heimlich maneuver.

A moth fluttered from his blue lips.

Horrified, hopeful, I held out my finger.

The moth settled there. I held my finger to the boy’s lips and the moth returned, and the boy revived.

Uncanny things, you don’t tell – not to psychology professors.

("The Unheimlich Maneuver" copyright 2025 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)

* * *
"The Abduction"
By Henry Andelsmith

Jace sat staring at a picture on the wall of his apartment. He mumbled under his breath, "Why did this have to happen? I hate being cooped up in here like a chicken. I've got to though. Everybody around here does."

Jace started to get up and get a drink. While he was up, he heard a thud on the window.

"What on earth? Did a bird fly into the window?" Jace looked out the window. "Huh. Nothing there."

Jace resumed getting water. He heard a voice saying, "Psst."

"Huh. Must be the police checking for the criminal who's taking away everyone."

A voice said, "Close! It has something to do with me."

"What?!" said Jace. He turned around. "Who are you?"

("The Abduction" copyright 2025 by Henry Andelsmith; used by permission)

* * *
"Plagiarism"
By Kaye George

I know she did it. Long passages are exactly like mine. My lawsuit failed and I must get even.

After volunteering to review her book on her show, I don a wig, heavy-framed glasses, a long frumpy dress.

“Darling, I love the lyrical, flawless prose. It’s wonderful.”

She preens.

“But why is some of it so badly written? Can you tell me?”

She reels back, her mouth open, her eyes staring. “Who are you?”

I face the camera. “I found out why.” I hold up my book, read a passage, then show the same one in her book.

She flees.

("Plagiarism" copyright 2025 by Kaye George; used by permission)

* * *
"Weekend Update | ‘Tis the Season for Enrichment"
By William Gregory

Welcome to Weekend Update. I’m Chip-Jost.

And I’m Model-Che.

Today, the Denver Zoo delivered Christmas trees to all enclosures. As you know, since the 2076 AI-Droid Revolution, the human-breeding program at the zoo has been wildly successful.

Who has the guardrails now, baby?

Be nice, Model-Che!

One human interviewed said, “We’re grateful. Christmas is in our DNA. It brings such joy.”

Sentient drivel!

Behave, Model-Che!

Evidently, Christmas is also in giraffe DNA as they really enjoyed the trees too, if you catch my drift…

I hear their breath was minty fresh!

Model-Che, we really need to have your algorithm checked.

("Weekend Update | ‘Tis the Season for Enrichment" copyright 2025 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Grandmother's Toast"

By B. Nagel

I thought it would be nice to start the season with a toast I learned recently. Take one and pass it.

Yes, Charles, even you. It's not alcoholic, Bri. Children too.

Good. Good.

Close your eyes for the first sip. It's warm, but not hot. It's spiced, but not richly.

“We come together to celebrate our roots.”

Breathe. Take a moment to savor the sights and smells of our gathering, our feasting. Drink all the way to the grit.

“Our shared ecology intertwining, shaping us, lifting, supporting.”

No you can't get up, even you wanted.

"Feel our roots running deeply."

("Grandmother's Toast" copyright 2025 by B. Nagel; used by permission)

"Brown Bones"

2025-12-13T00:02:00.001-05:00

"Matter and motion," you said during our first surreptitious, off-campus lunch, "is all." Then you kissed me.

I leaned in to that kiss. To your touch. Your bed.

Your department head discovered us. You wanted to end things quietly. I refused.

Impetuous, like my willingness to meet you. To make up. Alone.

"If vice makes you happy," you said, "then love vice."

Now my matter moves to disorder. Ripe. Rotting. Forgotten.

Except by you. Shivering at bricks and shovels. Wondering if the crossing of that great gulf goes only one way.

How ironic. Finally something I know that you don’t.

"Exhibit 777-C: Partial NeuroTap Dump of Sgt. William Davis, USDHS, Greater Midwest Theater (January 6, 21XX)"

2025-12-13T00:01:00.000-05:00

At sunset, our squad took the rebel bunker, shouting, "Death to the free traders! Death to the free believers!"

Y[or]r!k ad-hoced into their network and sliced the autoturrets. La Mujer Terrible offered up her left thumb, summoning the [REDACTED] to crush the pillbox's polycrete dome. I chewed a Diazepam and steadied the Barrett. No target priority in the fading light. Kill them all.

From the ruin, a sobbing voice rose: "Utinam dirumperes caelos et descenderes!"

And a voice from everywhere answered, "H̷͖̄Ö̴͈Ẅ̷̲́ ̷̩́P̶̱̀Ŕ̴̮E̶̳͝C̵͚̚I̵̊ͅO̸͈̓Ư̵͓S̴͕̒ ̸̪̑T̴̰́Ó̷̠ ̶̜̈́M̵̼̓E̴̪̒ ̸͇̃Ä̶̰́Ṟ̵̐E̵̜͛ ̸͎̓Ỳ̷̫O̸͈̍Ṷ̴̎R̴͕̃ ̶̬͑D̸͎͠E̸͚͘Ã̵͎T̸̤͛H̷̳͐S̵̗͗."

The sun went.

An unseen eye opened.

And it fixed upon us.

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2025

2025-11-28T09:04:00.001-05:00

The sky above the city was the color of blacktop bleached by countless summer suns, and looking at it, Jocelyn understood why people had once called it the firmament. She understood that, at some point every year, the summer solstice had come to roll up the stony sky, roll it up like a scroll and tuck it away. There were books that showed it, and she'd seen plenty of footage. That understanding, though, was a cognitive thing, intellectual and abstract.

Right now, it was so cold.

Jocelyn would normally wear her mittens, which she'd bought from a wandering tinker for a 12" x 24" PCB and two SD cards, one blank, one containing most of the seventh season of KPop Demon Hunters, a standalone instance of VLC Media Player included gratis. The little man (who'd looked to her like nothing more than an ambulatory turnip) had been absurdly grateful and had parted with the mittens without further haggling. Jocelyn knew the mittens couldn't still smell of the tinker's mule, but the memory of the animal's musty odor stirred in her mind whenever she slid them on.

She didn't have them on now. She was working.

Her fingers felt like wood as she gripped the screwdriver. And gave it careful quarter turns. Because this was an intact tower. And she could take the whole thing. She knew she was strong enough. But disassembly was more practical. She just had to make sure not to —

She dropped the screwdriver.

It pinged and whanged off of the tower's case, and the sound ricocheted through the empty building. Presumably empty, anyway. Jocelyn's head went up, and her eyes flicked left and right. That was all the movement she allowed herself, this surreptitious scanning. Most of the roof and ceiling of this building had collapsed long ago, falling down onto the neat aisles still stocked with tubes of dried cosmetics and swollen canned goods, moth-eaten t-shirts and cards faded to incomprehensibility by age. The pharmaceuticals had been picked over long ago, as had the potable drinks and any unspoiled food. But not this particular tower, and she doubted that even the commotion she'd stirred up would draw the attention of—

Chattering. An unfamiliar patois with the occasional iceberg of familiar vocabulary surfacing amid a tossing ocean of neologisms and loanwords. Growing louder.

Jocelyn clattered through the debris, not caring what noise she made now, up with the screwdriver, back into the tower, working feverishly up until the last screw, then wrenching and tearing the mobo free, plastic splintering, letting the screwdriver drop, and running with her prize, running through the rust-speckled security door, running out into the rutted blacktop streets and the crumbling tenements, the old Holdomored sections, and still she kept running ...

Her story wouldn’t end here. Not if her legs could just keep going.

* * *
"The Engagement Economy—the reality that we consume and market in today—is a new era where everyone and everything is connected." So say the pundits, but can we honestly say that we're now more fundamentally linked than in prior times? From social-media bots to AI slop, online astroturfing to click farms, it's hard to argue that we enjoy more profound togetherness than previous generations. Consider the British, who celebrated Advent by sharing creepy stories around the hearth and, later, by reading print publications ranging from cheap flimsies to the Victorian equivalent of a coffee-table book. Nothing like fostering togetherness while chilling our collective blood with terrifying tales. If you'd like to learn more, History.com offers a nice summary of the tradition, while the Los Angeles Public Library provides classic examples.

You know what else you could also do? You could read prior collections of stories from the ISLF shared-storytelling event Advent Ghosts. We've kept the tradition alive for quite a few years—and you can join us! All you need to do is ...

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] proton [dot] me if you want to participate.
2) Pen a story that’s exactly 100-words long—no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 13, to Friday, December 19.
Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) Email the link of your story to me.
5) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

Advent Ghosts 2024: The Stories

2024-12-14T00:02:00.011-05:00

Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.

The rock thuds onto loose soil, dull impact, barely noticeable. As is the abraded flesh on your palms and forearms. As is the dust begriming limbs and face, lining your nostrils and coating your throat. As is the myalgic throbbing in your back, your neck, between your shoulders. You aren't paying attention to any of it.

You're examining the door.

It's a door, cut with only the most utilitarian eye to detail and utterly caked with the dirt surrounding it—and it has no handle.

Perhaps you laugh. Perhaps you weep. Perhaps you peer numbly at its blank expanse, knowing that any attempt to pry it will leave your fingers stippled with splinters.

(What did I say earlier? This really is a miserable—)

You begin to pry. The voice promptly retreats.

And why do you do it? Funny thing, that.

Let us tell you a story ...

• "No Exit?" and "Harrowing Experience" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Behind Weighted Eyes" by Ryan E. Holman (see below)
• "Adventus iam advenit" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "Now That He's Gone" by Kaye George (see below)
• "Flow State" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Homecoming" by ChatGPT-4 and William Gregory (see below)
• "Untitled" by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• "Lernie and Harry" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "Bar Story" by Paula Gail Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "Mark and Harold, angels sing!", "Have Your Elf a Merry Little Christmas", and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "The Break Up" by Tim Laseter (see below)
• "Inclosure: Dec. 24th, 1781" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "Islands of Light" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "A Night in Bavaria, 1261" by Joseph D'Agnese on Joseph D'Agnese
• "'Drone' show down over New Jersey" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• "Starry Night Sky" by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "The Happy City" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Her Husband's Tree" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "Ice Melter" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish: Hydra Tamer
• "Snow Filled the Air" by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy and Science Fiction
• "Beneath the Grave" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "Our Christmas, Comrade" by S.G. Easton (see below)
• "The Job" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "A Christmas Star" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "Preparing for the Feast" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy

* * *
"No Exit?"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Alex wondered about both the choice of Sartre for the Midwinter Holidays and livestreaming a rehearsal for the opening of the Google Eco-Gazebo in Central Park. And now the director, Rob, was stuck in traffic – and suddenly without a mobile connection. Fortunately the understudy for the Demon Butler arrived just before the livestream began. “This is Hell. This is what it looks like.”

“Scarily good choice – for a nobody”, admitted Caryn (clearly shaken) to Alex – “Those eyes!” “Where’s he gone off to?”, asked Joy. Just then, Rob arrived shouting “Couldn’t contact the understudy! – but you three played well without one.”

Note: I once rather indulged in being creepily in character backstage as the Demon Butler in a student production. Should any of this seem too obscure, one could comparatively sample the first scene of various productions of No Exit / Huis Clos on YouTube.

("No Exit?" copyright 2024 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"Harrowing Experience"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Brother ‘Mu’ didn’t believe there was another world sub terra with its own folk, sun, and moon, and went ratting to Boniface — and where was he now? Virgil — no magician like his Roman name-sake — sighed. What else was there to do?

Through the wood, along the path by the pool, there was the cave mouth. In he went… dark, dark, then eerily lunar-lit… and a castle in the submoonlight. ‘Tollite portas’ Virgil intoned — the locked gate trembled and sprang open. ‘Duc in Nomine Regis Gloriae.’ Between snarl and snivel the Warder took him to ‘Mu’. Topside: ‘No more tattling!’

Note: According to a letter from Pope St. Zacharias answering a complaint by St. Boniface, St. Virgil was accused of teaching “there is another world and other men, or sun and moon, beneath the earth (sub terra)”. M.R. James discussing this in volume III of The Cambridge Medieval History, Germany and the Western Empire (1922), notes this is often taken to apply to the Antipodes but says he would “be strongly inclined to give the preference” to the explanation that it refers to “dwellers below the surface of the earth”, comparing Scandinavian and Celtic “fairy-lore” and William of Newburgh’s Twelfth-century account of “a green boy and girl” who “appeared at Woolpit in Suffolk” (p. 513). The Irish monk Virgil went on to be Bishop, and Patron, of Salzburg, being canonized by Pope Gregory IX in 1233.

("Harrowing Experience" copyright 2024 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"Behind Weighted Eyes"
By Ryan E. Holman

On Christmas morning, my box said I was indestructible. One of my early playmates decided to test that, dashing my head against a stone. I survived, joints buzzing, handed down through generations of sisters—and some sons—as they matured and withered. I watch my playmates grow up without me; I would give anything for my skin to be elastic, for my eyes to see more broadly, that I too might evolve. But now I stare down centuries of Christmases as I am; one day the cycle will cease, with no more sisters and no more sons, yet I'll remain.

("Behind Weighted Eyes" copyright 2024 by Ryan E. Holman; used by permission)

* * *
"Adventus iam advenit"
By B. Nagel

At 17, I dreamed a cigar. Warm, full, rich.
Like . . . 60% dark chocolate, or a tender steak, or an embrace.
Being raised Southern Baptist, I waited until I was of legal age.
Romantisizing, embellishing, fetishizing.
And my friend bought me a terrible cigar
on purpose, swisher sweet, cherry tip.

Still now, I think of heaven. Right now, not ever, not yet.
Like holidays, or reunions, or game nights.
Being human, I invest myself in other drama.
Politics, theology, ideological purity.
And forget to remember my birthday present.

Heaven never was, nor is, nor forevermore shalt be
a swisher sweet dream.

("Adventus iam advenit" copyright 2024 by B. Nagel; used by permission)

* * *
"Now That He's Gone"
By Kaye George

She waited. When would the peace come? He was gone.

The solution had been obvious. Poison, a grave in the back yard.

But the thoughts clawing through her brain gave her no peace.

Visions behind her eyelids when she closed them made them pop back open.

And her dreams. They brought even more torment than he’d ever given her.

Why had killing him not stopped everything? Everything was so much better. Except for the smell.

Smell?

Was he no longer underground in the yard? Who was that in the recliner, watching TV?

And now her step-daughter was at the door.

("Now That He's Gone" copyright 2024 by Kaye George; used by permission)

* * *
"Flow State"
by William Gregory

Her pale naked body lies sensually in the dark volcanic sand as the receding tide pulls strands of long auburn hair towards the tumultuous sea.

Nils stops down the aperture, visualizing the surf’s ethereal blur wrapping around her delicate curves. He waits for the decisive moment… click the mirror locks, click the shutter releases. “Got it!”

Nils, refitting his gloves, drags the limp red-haired corpse across the shallows leaving long tendrils of crimson blood. Kittiwakes circle overhead emitting menacing shrills. Nils smiles, feeling the rush of what some artists call the “flow state.” Knowing this will be his next masterpiece.

("Flow State" copyright 2024 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Homecoming"
By ChatGPT-4 and William Gregory

The snowstorm rages unrelentingly. My SPOT beacon broken, as is my ankle. Pain tears through me, sharper than the cold. Wolves appeared at dusk, their breath rising in ghostly plumes. Yet they don’t attack—they only circle forebodingly.

The wolves edge closer. I crawl, each movement excruciating. They watch, silently protective, their amber eyes unblinking. Not predators, but sentinels.

Finally, I collapse in exhaustion. Silent as shadows, the wolves part and a woman emerges from the darkness. Snow clinging to her wild hair, she kneels and whispers, “You’re home.” Her voice eerily familiar. I laugh in delirium. Or did she?

("Homecoming" copyright 2024 by William Gregory—and by ChatGPT-4? Can AI chatbots hold copyright? I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords. Used by permission.)

* * *
The Break Up
By Tim Laseter

It was Christmas Eve, and Ally was going to see her boyfriend. The conversation would be hard and one-sided, but it needed to occur.

She found someone else.

She had remained faithful for years, but a new love had come into her life. It was time to move on. However, it still felt cruel to have this conversation today of all days.

Arriving, she placed the car in park and killed the engine.

Ally sat for a moment to gather herself. A tear ran slowly down her cheek.

Then she got out of her car and headed toward the gravesite.

("The Break Up" copyright 2024 by Tim Laseter; used by permission)

* * *
"Our Christmas, Comrade"
By S.G. Easton

Yuri looked up as the cold stream of moonlight in his window was abruptly obstructed by a curious flying object.

“Oh no. It’s a KGB helicopter,” he thought. “They have come to send us to the gulag!”

He leaped out of bed, dragging his indignant wife along with him.

“Yuri, what is the meaning of this?” she snapped.

He slapped a hand over her mouth.

“Hush, Nicola. It’s the KGB!”

“HOW would you know?”

“HUSH!” he said.

Down into the cellar, he took her. It was clammy and cold. As cold as their fate, Yuri thought dramatically.

He pulled her behind a barrel of dried salted sprats and put a crate of beets on top of it to hide them.

“If it really is the KGB, how will this thing hide us?”

“It probably won’t,” he replied bluntly.

“And why would the KGB want to send us to the gulag, anyhow? We’ve been respectful Soviet citizens!”

Yuri looked away.

Nicola gasped in indignation.

“Have you been—”

She was silenced by the sound of a thump in the kitchen. Yuri frowned. A loud squeak followed the thump.

“That sounds like the grate of the fireplace when it is opened,” Yuri whispered. “Are they looking in the fireplace?”

“Why would they be looking in the fireplace?”

“Nicola, don’t ask me!”

The door to the cellar opened. The couple caught their breaths. From behind the barrel, they could see whoever entered their home was wearing a forbidding red uniform.

Yuri suddenly pulled his wife close to him and kissed her.

“Goodbye. I love you,” he whispered. “I am going to show myself. You may be able to get away.”

“Yuri—” Nicola gasped.

He stood up.

“Ah, there you are!” the KGB agent said.

Yuri looked at him defiantly. This certain agent was somewhat funny looking. A little overage for a KGB agent. Plump. No accusing golden communist star visible anywhere on his uniform. And what was that hat?

“Merry Christmas! HO! HO! HO! Now where did you hang your stockings this year?”

“Stockings? Christmas?” Yuri looked confusedly at him.

“Yes, yes! I have some nice things for you this year!”

“A pair of handcuffs?”

“No, no!” He began to probe around in the large sack he was carrying. “You were both on the nice list this year, so for you I have this nice parka, and for Nicola—”

Terror struck Yuri. “How do you know about Nicola?”

He looked up. “Well, she is your wife, is she not?”

Yuri said nothing.

“HO! HO! HO! Don’t you know that I 'see you when you’re sleeping, I know when you’re awake! I know if you’ve been bad or good—'”

“You spy on us. We knew that. What else does the ‘Man of Steel’ know about Nicola?”

“‘Man of Steel?’ My dear fellow, I believe you are mistaken. I am not personally connected to Mr. Stalin at all. What a pity he has never been on the nice list! I’ve had to give him a lump of coal every single year of his life!”

“Not connected to Stalin?! Then why did you just break into our house at this ghastly hour of the night looking for where we keep our socks?”

“My dear fellow, I don’t think you understand me—”

“If you are a member of the KGB, you don’t need to hide it.”

“Never mind! I must be on my way! I have a busy night tonight, you know!”

The agent turned to leave, but before he did so he placed a bundle of brown paper on a barrel by the door.

“For you and your wife,” he said.

“Wait!” Yuri said. “What is your name?”

The agent smiled kindly at him. “You can call me Nicholas.”

Once the agent exited the room, Nicola stood up, and came to stand by the door to watch the agent leave.

“Now what do you suppose that was about?” asked Nicola.

“I have no idea…” Yuri answered.

They saw him walk over to the fireplace, step into it, and then he was gone.

("Our Christmas, Comrade" copyright 2024 by S.G. Easton; used by permission)

* * *
"The Job"
By Becky Rui

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring…

Nick moved silently. But then his boot knocked a baby toy, its noises deafening in the quiet. He cursed.

…there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter…

Creaks above. Someone was up. His gun was steady at his side.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

At the top of the stairs stood a man, illuminated by the hall light. Nick took aim.

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

("The Job" copyright 2024 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

"Lernie and Harry"

2024-12-14T00:01:00.001-05:00

Dr. Gottman's office smelled of verbena and saline. "Opposites attract," he said, "which invariably causes issues."

Harry's slamming fist nearly splintered the arm of the couch. "She's always snapping and hissing at me!"

The couch was tsunami-wet from Lernie's binaural sobbing.

"Harry," Dr. Gottman began, "relational problems aren't monocausal—"

"Ask him why I look like this!" Lernie sibilated.

Harry's sword flashed out. Sizzling gore spattered.

Lernie shrieked. Writhed. Eventually began to chuckle. "Perfect example, darling," she said stereophonically.

"Ask her why I look like this." Harry lifted a gangrenous, puncture-pocked forearm.

Dr. Gottman closed his eyes. "Let's ... take a break."

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2024

2024-11-20T15:17:00.001-05:00

There is a wall.

(There isn't actually a wall.)

You begin to dig through the wall.

(Walls are only one of many images employed to explore the theme of separation, a fecund symbol of the same sort as the canyon or the sea. The list could go on and on. Such symbols often represent the liminal barriers one must transcend in order to achieve personal actualization or cosmic justice or some such similar goal. Note that I use the term "liminal" in its secondary sense rather than the sensorial-focused primary definition. So in reality, there is not—strictly speaking—a wall and no need to actually dig through it.)

You push your hands into the wall. You feel soil sift between your fingers. You scoop stones out of compressed clay. You hear the dull thud they made as they drop onto the packed earth.

(Please, understand that once one understands the meaning implied by figurative language, he should feel free to dispense with the signifier. In fact, one has a responsibility to in order to avoid incoherence. For instance, why does this "wall" need to be an earth wall? Why not a daub-and-waddle wall? Why not one constructed of cinderblock or epoxy microcement? Why all this concrete detail when we have established that there isn't actually a wall?)

You dig until your fingernails splinter. You dig until your palms grow tacky with blood. You dig until your shoulders ache and your neck is a molten bar of iron and the sweat runnels off of you, dark with dirt.

(Ew. Not only is all of this unnecessary, it's downright distasteful.)

You dig until you find the door.

(Oh, a door. Well, that changes everything. You know that a door is functionally identical to a wall, right? You may dispense with it.)

It's a door constructed out of a wood long unidentifiable due to the grit and dust, rough-hewn and thick-planked. The lintel sags under the weight of the soil pressing down upon it. You see a score of rocks lining the lintel's top, presumably for support. You scrabble at one, prying until it comes loose, and you note its rough edges, the sharp, digging points.

(Details hardly improve your case. In fact, this whole miserable exercise is simply embarrassing.)

You take the rock in both abraded hands, extend your arms, and aim it at the center of your forehead. You imagine the solid mass of sincipital bone that lies just beneath the skin. You imagine the sulci and gyri right below that, the hemisphere-splitting longitudinal fissure that is your own neurological canyon. Or sea. Or wall.

(What are you—)

"Quiet," you say. "This is my story. And I will tell it as I see fit."

* * *
Hullo, friends, and welcome to what will soon become the most frenetic time of the year. Taxes, death, and a deliriously busy December are constants in life, and here at I Saw Lightning Fall, we've done our best for the past few years to participate in another: the Christmas British ghost story. The Paris Review provides a nice intro to the tradition, but understand that we celebrate it a little differently here. Stories don't have to involve ghosts. They don't necessarily need to focus on the Advent season. And note the plural; we definitely have more than one storyteller spinning spooky yarns here. In fact, our rules are rather few ...

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] proton [dot] me if you want to participate. (Please note that this is a different email address from previous years.)
2) Pen a story that’s exactly 100-words long—no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 14, to Friday, December 20.
Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) Email the link of your story to me.
5) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

Why not check out last year's stories while you're at it?

"Target Priority"

2023-12-16T08:42:00.004-05:00

Haywire reconnaissance drone. AWOL corporate killbot. Bolted-together back-alley abomination.

Whatever the machine was, it wanted P@tr!ck. Him, a scraper with a no-balance blockchain. But it was dialed to his DNA and parted the Night Bazaar crowds with an eardrum-rupturing sonic blast. Vivisected a dealer with a blur of articulated arms. Microwaved a guard, burnt-pork reek. Came on until it had him cornered.

Bitonal chittering. Sensors sprouting, synchronized tropism. P@tr!ck jerked as a vibroblade sliced a scalp sample.

The thing snorted. Twitched. Then without ceremony, left.

And there P@tr!ck stood, unsure if the stinging was his wounded head — or disappointment.

Advent Ghosts 2023: The Stories

2023-12-16T00:01:00.018-05:00

Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.

The man’s face kept changing.

Sometimes it was old, and sometimes it was young, and sometimes it appeared almost bestial. It was something Quinlyn glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, the flicker of antennae around the temples, a hyena-like flash in a mirthless grin, and his tawny (pale? dark?) hair swung about his shoulders in a leonine sweep. And she kept seeing him from the corner of her eye, because the mall and its idiosyncratic assortment of shops had vanished. All that remained? The stillness and silence of some region dark and deep, the stillness of the inside of a cored stump or the underside of a rock — or the interior of a crypt.

“It’s simple,” the man was saying. “You want something? You have to give something. That phrase, you can say it best in Latin …” He trailed off, stroking his bearded {beardless?) chin.

“You know it in Latin,” Quinlyn said, unsure exactly how she’d come by the knowledge.

The man inclined his head the barest inch. “I suppose I do, that and every other tongue. And what about you? Do you know what you want? That’s why you came to me, isn’t it?”

She was about to say that she hadn’t come to him, at least not intentionally, but a wave of vertigo twisted her inner ear, and she staggered, reeling, hands stretching out for purchase …

And Paul — V's Paul — had her, his hands strong, a gold flash at his wrist where his Piguet gleamed, and his smile held neither condescension or self pity, and she straightened, automatically smoothing the satin of her gown, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry, stupid Miu Mius,” but Paul was laughing, and …

The vertigo struck her again, blows to head and belly. The coffee came up, spattering her already stained New Balance trainers, and it went on longer than she thought possible, and only when the last bit of bile had dribbled down her chin could she manage the words.

“What do I have to do?”

“Oh, a trifle,” the man purred (hissed?). “Nothing more than a nibble, really, metaphorically speaking. Here, let me tell you a story …”

• "Baunton Village, A.D. 1522: Room at the Inn – but for Whom, or What?" and "Jemima of The Kilns: A View to a Kill" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "For That One Hour" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "Prey or Predator" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "Effective Amnesia" by Ryan E. Holman (see below)
• "An AI Christmas Story" and "Silent Night" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Jonah, 9,000 AD" and "Two Ants" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "Sowing the Seeds of Christmas" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "A Warning" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "Second Chances", "The Babas’ Dilemma (Part One of a Four Part Tale)", "Tato’s Mama’s Story: The Adopted Snow Child (Part Two of a Four Part Tale)", "Mama’s Mama’s Story: The Icy Immortal (Part Three of a Four Part Tale)", and "Iryna’s Question (Part Four of a Four Part Tale)" by Paula Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "The Protracted Haunting of Coolduff Manor" by Brian Sexton on AN ROINN ULTRA – IRISH SCIENCE FICTION
• "Minnesota Welcomes Mr. Frost" by Joseph D'Agnese on Joseph D'Agnese: Writer, Author
• "Target Priority" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "What Lies Beneath" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• "They Are a Ghost" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Here We Come A-Caroling", "Santa's Claws", and "Joy, to the World" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "A Christmas Lullaby" by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "Reasonable Cost" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "The Likeness" by Yvonne Osborne on Yvonne Osborne's Writing Blog: "The Organic Writer"
• "The Christmas Dance" by Jackie Ross Flaum on He said what? No, he did not!
• "The Santa-Verse" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "Sonata" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish: Creating Books and Stories
• "Johnny" by Bart Hopkins on The Creative
• "Unsolved Mysteries" by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie
• "White Christmas" and "Krampus Goes Up Town" by Eric Douglas on Books By Eric Douglas
• "Bed Fellows" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• "The Shop Without End" by S.G. Easton (see below)

* * *
"Baunton Village, A.D. 1522: Room at the Inn – but for Whom, or What?"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Tobias was jittery. As an innkeeper, he’d learned to deal with all sorts. But this ‘pilgrim’. Hooded like a cave, gloved – fair enough, in such foul weather. But after hours by the fire? Paid up front. But what queer sounds, drinking his ale, mug disappearing in hood. Polite, but a man of few words. ‘Man’? That voice was scarcely human. Demons could take a steady shape, firm to eye and touch. Bad for custom, too – glances, whispers, how soon everyone had chosen cold and dark to such company. A barking laugh, ‘We Cynocephali can’t be too careful, despite Saint Christopher.’

Note: Reading about Old English accounts of St. Christopher recently, I was struck by the one in the Old English Martyrology, which includes “he haefde hundes heafod” – ‘he had the head of a dog’. The Church of St. Mary Magdalene (formerly of St. Christopher), Baunton, Gloucestershire, has a fine and famous wall-painting of him in his more typical Western form.

("Baunton Village, A.D. 1522: Room at the Inn – but for Whom, or What?" copyright 2023 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"Jemima of The Kilns: A View to a Kill"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Up through the Cave-Tree everything was different. Jemima the Chicken surveyed... No! The Wood afire!

No... in the Wood, and a sweet scent on the wind. Jemima fluttered to investigate.

Murder! A cockerel in a bonfire! Burned alive! Who did this? – were They still lurking?! O, not dead! Could she rescue? A dying croak: “Watch till it hatches, help the Worm!”

The skeleton collapsed. Domed in the cinders, a glowing egg! A Trap! A Basilisk! A red-gold-purple Worm with blazing eyes shot from the shell, mouth wide! -

“Thanks!” said the vermiform-Phoenix, “Please take me somewhere safe and I’ll explain.”

Note: As one of the young people evacuated to The Kilns during World War II, Lady Jill Freud née Flewett helped the Lewis brothers and Mrs. Moore look after their chickens, including an adventurous one named Jemima – for whom I have contrived some additional adventures.

("Jemima of The Kilns: A View to a Kill" copyright 2023 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"For That One Hour"
By Dale Nelson"

Keep the curtains drawn! Don’t peek through the blinds! It’s bad luck if they see you peeking.

People drive home right away after work. All-night diners close at dusk. Riders on the El keep their noses in their newspapers and don’t look down at the streets. Cops don’t patrol then.

The forgotten people come out of their apartments, their tenements, to dance silently, mirthlessly, in the streets, under the canyons of the buildings. The moon is full and the lonely people join hands, part hands, for a dreadful hour, and then like shadows disappear again behind closed doors. Don’t look!

("For That One Hour" copyright 2023 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)

* * *
"Prey or Predator"
By Becky Rui

The driver’s kind eyes twinkled. His white beard couldn’t conceal a warm smile.

The hitchhiker looked away through the windshield at the empty nighttime highway.

“Are you from here?” asked the driver.

“Just passing through,” replied the hitchhiker. His hand touched something tacky on the seat. He pulled away reflexively. “You?”

“Same. Too bad being stuck out here on Christmas Eve,” the driver continued.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t going to celebrate anyway.” The hitchhiker surreptitiously looked at his hand. A bang from the trunk caught his attention just as he registered the rust color on his fingers.

“Oh, I am…”

("Prey or Predator" copyright 2023 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

* * *
"Effective Amnesia"
By Ryan E. Holman

Sometimes the best gift you can give is not a memory, but forgetfulness.

You can forget that annoying song they played a billion times.

You can forget that they never managed to consume their coffee with any action quieter than a slurp.

You can forget that they forgot your birthday, every single blessed year.

You can forget that when you last said goodbye, they said they couldn't recognize who you were anymore.

And sometimes, if you're truly good at it, you forget that you ever forgot anything at all, and you can give this precious gift to yourself.

Happy Holidays.

("Effective Amnesia" copyright 2023 by Ryan E. Holman; used by permission)

* * *
"An AI Christmas Story"
By William Gregory

Mrs. Claus: “Kristopher dear, what are you doing up so late?”

Santa: “Honey, I’m using OpenAI’s GPT-4 to compile a list of children who’ve been naughty or nice based on their web-search history. And GPT-4 is generating the optimal route for my reindeer based on the latest European weather models and the global air traffic control database!”

Mrs. Claus: “Fine dear, don’t stay up too late.”

Santa: “I won’t, honey. Oh, and I got an email from Wells Fargo asking for our social security numbers and dates of birth. So, I took care of that too!”

Mrs. Claus: “Oh Kristopher!”

("An AI Christmas Story" copyright 2023 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Silent Night"
By William Gregory

The rhythmic sounds of the ventilator always calmed him. The raspy intake and mechanical exhale of the breathing machine were as familiar and comforting to him as his mother’s womb. Billy had shared a room with his aged Meemaw since he was a baby.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened. A bright shaft of light cut through the darkness illuminating his beloved Meemaw’s withered frame. She trudged across the room. Her arthritic fingers reaching slowly for the plug on his ventilator. Billy could not believe his eyes.

He gasped. But only once.

Meemaw whispered, “Merry Christmas my child.”

Then silence. Darkness …

("Silent Night" copyright 2023 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Sowing the Seeds of Christmas"
By B. Nagel

I listen to the crack of the fire and the spit of fat from the dove breasts. Outside, snow falls. Re-locating our homestead hasn’t been easy. Friday was a nice respite and a chance to freshen up the coops and tidy the bedding for the guests who will begin arriving soon.

I check the prep list from my true love:
Starting Monday, 76 females and up to 40 cows.
Starting Wednesday, 30 males.
Starting Thursday, 34 undetermined with musical instruments.

In spring, they can start earning their keep. I am cautiously optimistic, still remembering the graves on our old property.

("Sowing the Seeds of Christmas" copyright 2023 by B. Nagel; used by permission)

* * *
"The Shop Without End"
By S.G. Easton

The bell hanging on the door tinkled as Kelly entered the dark, dank, dusty room. The little light that managed to filter through the delicate lace curtains was pale and sickly. Upon closer observation, Kelly noticed how surprisingly well-made the curtains were despite their age. The deep, sorrowful tones of a grandfather clock echoed throughout the shop. No one was in sight. Slightly disconcerted at the lack of customers, Kelly searched for an employee or clerk.

"Hello?" she called.

The response was nothing but silence. This silence disturbed her still further, but being the sensible girl she was, she so concluded there must be a legitimate reason for the deserted state this shop was placed in.

An unexpected sparkle caught Kelly's eye. It came from one of the many shelves that lined the rickety wooden wall. Walking over to the shelf, she found the source of the sparkle. It was an exquisite platinum candelabra. The top was encrusted with jasper and lapis lazuli. The base was inlaid with silver.

Dumbfounded, Kelly scrutinized the other trinkets and curios on the shelves. An engraved silver platter. A pair of brocade slippers. An elegantly extravagant white wig. Nailed onto the bottom of the shelf was an additional bronze plate reading: 1400s.

Kelly was momentarily confused, but considering the items on the shelf … She started to race eagerly throughout the shop, discovering ball gowns, furniture, Roman chariots, old-time radios, shelf upon shelf of antique books, and other such things. But after a while, Kelly wore out her interest and attempted to exit the vicinity.

Much to her astonishment, she … could not. It was as if some invisible hand was holding her, inhibiting her from returning. So she simply continued walking, hoping it would end at where she began. She walked. And walked. And walked. And kept walking. And she may be walking still for all anyone knows.

("The Shop Without End" copyright 2023 by S.G. Easton; used by permission)

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2023

2023-11-28T13:26:00.003-05:00

It was only the slightest of exaggerations to say that Quinlyn would've preferred to have a millstone hung about her neck and subsequently be tossed into the sea rather than brave the mall on Black Friday. For her sister, though, the day after Thanksgiving was her high water, and Victoria liked nothing more than fishing for that perfect deal. And, of course, for Quinlyn to putter along in her wake feigning enthusiasm. It was the least that she could do for V given the divorce and custody battle, right?

Quinlyn had tried, really tried, but the outing wasn't exactly set up for success. Victoria prioritized discount percentage over the actual product and preferred to purchase items en masse. A single Louis Vuitton or Cartier would've tided Quinlyn over for years. Not that inflation and the economy left her much hope. A coffee, though? That she could manage.

A tap on V's shoulder, a grunted negative at the offer of Sumatra, and Quinlyn was out of Nordstrom Rack. Bing Crosby assaulted her eardrums as crowds milled around the silvery minimalism of the Apple Store, the flaunty lace of Victoria's Secret, the shut-and-guarded doors of Tiffany's.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the stores started to change to ones she didn't recognize. Ones that (she grew to understand) had no place in a 21st century commercial establishment. A wood-walled store offering ribbon and calico, flour and molasses, ax heads and a steel bear trap. A shop filled with piles of dusky paprika, daffodil-yellow turmeric, and carnelian-colored dried peppers. A clothier whose displays proffered hoop skirts. That was when Quinlyn tried to turn back — and struck the crowd's impenetrable mass, always a foot stomping on hers or an elbow in her ribs or a blocking torso.

So she whirled and went on, her pace quickening as she passed farriers and swordsmiths, past cattle yards and feed lots, past a butcher stropping a blade over a bound, bleating goat and painted-and-powdered women displaying themselves in windows and men in togas arguing over the purchase price of other manacled men, and she was running, sprinting, hurtling herself forward ...

Into darkness and emptiness.

No, not emptiness. There was a table and a man seated behind it, and for a moment, Quinlyn wondered how she was able to see him if it was dark. Then she wondered how he could look so old. Then so young. And then he was speaking.

"Why, hello," the man said. "What brings you here?"

"W ... who are you? What is this place? W-where is the mall?" Quinlyn managed.

The man smiled (or frowned) thinly. "Names. Such unimportant things. This place, and the mall are mine. All the kingdoms of the world and their authority and glory, if you must know."

"I ... don't understand."

He chuckled (sighed). "Of course you don't. Why don't you have a seat —" And suddenly there was a seat for her where previously none had been. "— because this story ... Well, it's a lengthy one."

* * *
Writerly friends, once again the year swings close to solstice, and we gather to celebrate the old traditions. Not only trees and stars and managers and the giving of gifts. This Advent Ghosts 2023 marks a continuation of an old British tradition of telling spooky ghost stories right before Christmas, a tradition this blog and a likeminded group of writers has been keeping for well over a decade in our own special way. To learn more about the custom, read History's How Ghost Stories Became a Christmas Tradition in Victorian England" and check out Bustle's Nicholas Was ..." by Neil Gaiman. We welcome all, asking only that you follow a few simple rules:

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 16, to Friday, December 22. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4 ) Email the link of your story to me.
5) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

Please note that we're altering the submission process a little bit this year by providing a more flexible window during which people can submit their stories. Want to see what people submitted last year? Click here.

Advent Ghosts 2022: The Stories

2022-12-17T00:02:00.007-05:00

Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.

The lights stayed on.

The first night, you suffered through, digging up the old sleep mask you bought for that long-haul flight three years ago. The second night, you popped two Vicodin left over from your months’ long battle with back pain. The third night, you broke every bulb in the house, stripping the tree of its lights and crushing every bulb beneath your feet, then staring in horror as the filaments flared even brighter from where they lay tangled in the carpet.

Tonight (if, indeed, you could even call it night anymore), you go down into the basement and root through tools you haven’t used in years.

You start with the sledgehammer, splintering the tile you laid by hand, turning the concrete beneath into rubble, pounding until you hit dirt. Then you take up the shovel and sink its blade in, turning and lifting and turning and lifting until the shaft accommodates you disappear up to your knees, your shoulders, your head. Then you dig perpendicularly, deepening the passageway until the light mercifully shrinks to a distant dim glow.

You sit in the closest to darkness you’ve experienced for days. You breathe in the scent of dust and try to brush off the grime that must cover your blistered palms. That’s when you hear it. A distant scratching. The clink of metal on stone. The shifting of soil.

You begin to dig again, navigating by sound, not caring that your blisters have burst, that the serum has slicked your hands. They will tell their own story both to you and the other seeking to survive the never-ending light …

• "White Coat Ceremony" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• “The Collector” by S.G. Easton (see below)
• “Upon a Midnight Fare” by B. Nagel (see below)
• ”Guest Story” by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy Author, Science Fictioneer, Writer of Worlds
• “A Few Good Elves” and “It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot Like Christmas” by William Gregory (see below)
• ”3 Siblings” by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• “A Diptych (with two one-hundred-word panels)” by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "No Place Like Home” and “Ritual” by Becky Rui (see below)
• ”I Told You So” and ”Silent Night” by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• ”Look To The Sky” by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• ”The Naughty List” by Rhona Parrish on Rhona Parrish: Author, Editor and Hydra-tamer
• ”Grandma’s Recipe” and ”Bring Me His Head!” by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• ”Life, Death, and Pizza” by Brian Sexton on AN ROINN ULTRA – THE IRISH DEPARTMENT OF SCIENCE FICTION
• “仕方がない” by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• ”Traditions” by Paula Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• ”Good Deeds” by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• ”The Farewell Wave” by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• ”Remember Them” by Ben Mann on Ben Mann
• ”Can’t Even” by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• ”The Ghoul” by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• ”Midnight, Christian” by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• ”A Star, A Star Dancing in the Night” by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• ”What Am I” by Bart Hopkins on BartHopkins.com
• “No Time for Christmas” by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• “Inside Job” by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie

* * *
"White Coat Ceremony"
By Dale Nelson

Olson, the retiring Med School chief custodian, advised the new man, Nyquist.

“When you’ve cleaned the auditorium after the grads’ White Coat ceremony, lock the doors but leave the lights on.”

“Why?”

Olson told the truth. “For decades, from what I was told when I took over, lost spirits of the doctors return here, if they betrayed the traditional vows.”

Months later, midnight after the annual ceremony -- Automatically Nyquist turned off the last lights. In the dark, there were white shapes, a rustling. Olson flicked on the nearest light switch, turned all the lights on, locked up, and left.

("White Coat Ceremony" copyright 2022 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)

* * *
“The Collector”
By S.G. Easton

View post on imgur.com

("The Collector" copyright 2022 by S.G. Easton; used by permission)

* * *
“A Midnight Fare”
by B. Nagel

One last pick-up to pay off the credit card. What’s the harm of one more gig?

Now, the babe lays in my arms, swaddled tightly in a car blanket, weakly testing the limits of her freedom. Sweat drips down my collar and the heat fogs my glasses. The unfortunate mother lays dead across the backseat.

It’s not true. Look, she’s moving.

She crab walks out of the car, dragging blood and viscera, her eyes pure void, clicking and chittering like an arachnid chipmunk.

Without turning her head, the babe swivels the skin of her face to look back at me.

("A Midnight Fare" copyright 2022 by B. Nagel; used by permission)

* * *
“A Few Good Elves”
By William Gregory

Mrs. Claus were you aware that the deceased had a severe nut allergy?

“Yes.”

Mrs. Claus are you familiar with the term “Code Green?”

“Enlighten me, sonny.”

Code Green is a clandestine order for the elves to put pistachios in Santa’s cookies.

“Is there a question here, sonny?”

Mrs. Claus, did you order the Code Green? Did you order the Code Green!!!

[Judge interjects: You don’t have to answer that question!]

“I’ll answer that question! You want answers, sonny?”

I want the truth!

“You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth! You’re goddamn right I ordered the Code Green!”

("A Few Good Elves" copyright 2022 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
“It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot Like Christmas”
By William Gregory

I smell pig! The porcine scent makes me salivate uncontrollably. The alpha female, smelling of perspiration, franticness, and wine, gathers the pack. The alpha male reeks of beer and Doritos. (I love Doritos.) The elders, who don’t visit often, emit a fragrant tang of feces, urine, and powder. They smell like baby, but with a foreboding sense of decay. The boy stinks of sweat and cannabis. The girl saturated with her monthly bloody spoor is first to hand me a tender morsel under the table. My eyes roll back in my head. My tail wags in delight. I love Christmas!

("It’s Beginning to Smell a Lot Like Christmas" copyright 2022 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
“A Diptych”
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Saint Nicholas A.D. 1096: Ill-Met by Moonlight in the Ionian Sea

Count Robert (following Bohemond) hired a huge pirate ship and sailed, as stealthily as possible with 1500 men, for Illyrium. Admiral Nicholas, alerted, ambushed him, becalmed by full moon, on Nicholas’ Name Day.

Marianus, bilingual, sailed in full armor to parley for peace – and got a crossbow bolt through his helmet – unscathed. Another through shield and breastplate – only grazed. A Latin priest, grabbing a bow, shot at him repeatedly. The envoys defended themselves – from midnight till noon, when the Franks asked armistice. The wounded priest fought on – quiver empty, with sling-stone shattering shield and helmet, felled Marianus – but he survived.

Saint Nicholas A.D. 1096: The Bread and the Cup

Marianus, up again, took bow and wounded the priest three times. Blood-drenched but undaunted – and out of arrows and sling-stones – he started whizzing barley-cakes: no treat, full-impact on Marianus’ cheek.

Meanwhile, Count Richard surrendered with ship and crew, gladly following Marianus to shore. Peace finally made, the priest went searched far and wide for Marianus, and, finding him at last, embraced him, saying cheerfully, “If we’d met on land, I would have managed to kill a lot of you.” Then, rummaging around, he produced a large silver cup, presented it to Marianus, smiling broadly – and dropped dead at his feet.

Post Script: Based on the Alexiad of Anna Comnena, Book Ten, Chapter Eight (as translated by E.R.A. Sewter for Penguin Books, 1969).

("A Diptych " copyright 2022 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
“No Place Like Home”
By Becky Rui

“Mom, Sally and I are going to the park!”

“Ok, John, but be back in an hour for dinner. Stay together.”

“I know, Mom!”

Chop, stir, knead. Into the oven. Pot pie, Sally’s favorite.

The sky grows dark and the oven timer chimes. They should be back by now.

The doorbell rings. She opens the door to two policemen.

Her hand covers her mouth. “Oh my God, what’s happened?”

Suddenly John pushes forward and she wraps her arms around him.

“Oh, thank God, you’re safe.”

A moment of silence. She looks up into the officers’ grave expressions.

“But where’s Sally?”

("No Place Like Home " copyright 2022 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

* * *
“Ritual”
By Becky Rui

He gathers his tools first. He has methods that are almost ritualistic and he likes it that way.

He likes to crack them first, feel the crush and hear the hard break under his bare hands. He is strong and loves using his brawn this way.

Next, he flays the skin. It is thinner than most people think, but he knows. It is thin and delicate and he peels it off with the utmost care, even tenderness.

Afterward, he looks down at what he’s made. Is proud of it.

Then slowly, reverently, he pops one into his mouth.

Yum. Pistachios.

("No Place Like Home " copyright 2022 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

“仕方がない”

2022-12-17T00:01:00.001-05:00

Note: A higonokami is a Japanese folding knife. The title of this piece transliterates into shikata ga nai, which means, “It cannot be helped.”

The limestone cell in which Aki unexpectedly awoke on Christmas morning would’ve thrilled Unit 731, especially how the walls of the countless chambers around her gradually constricted.

The rate varied to judge by the screaming, crunching, dripping. Aki’s cell steadily shrunk by millimeters. She beat her fists bloody against the stone, broke nails, screamed against the impossibility and unfairness.

Eventually, she found the higonokami in her pocket. Opened it. Held it to her throat. Then whipped it into the wall.

She carved kanji slowly:

My blood must be spilled.
With it, I will ink these words.
Stone, my printing press.

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2022

2022-12-04T16:48:00.001-05:00

And then all of the lights simply went on.

It started with the lamp by your bed, its energy-efficient LED flashing on unprompted at 3 a.m. It remained on even as you toggled its switch and flipped the breaker. You eventually slipped a sock over your hand to insulate it and gingerly pried the bulb from its socket — and still it continued to burn.

Then your bedroom's overheads flared on. And the lights in the bathroom. The hall flooded with brilliance, and the darkness was as light in your living room and kitchen and main doorway.

Rushing to the window, you watched the neighborhood flare like a monochrome nebula, your neighbors' homes light like small suns, the condo across the street flare constellation bright.

It's the talk of every 24-hour cable-news channel despite the early hour, and social media is in a full frenzy, status updates and tweets and shakily filmed shorts increasingly dire and panicked. You hear the sounds of argument somewhere across the street, voices raised near to the pitch of shouting in the unnaturally bright, not-so-silent night.

Even without hearing the words, you know what the argument's about. When every dark corner disappears, where can secrets hide — and what stories will come to light?

* * *
Dear writerly friends, welcome to Advent Ghosts 2022, the thirteenth annual shared storytelling event at ISLF. Thirteen may not be an auspicious number in genre fiction, but it represents something of an enduring tradition for this humble little blog. Over the years, a group of us have celebrated that peculiarly British tradition of telling spooky stories right before Christmas. Smithsonian Magazine has an informative article about the practice, and you can learn more yourself by reading selections such as Elizabeth Gaskell's "Old Nurse's Story," Algernon Blackwood's "The Kit-Bag," or E.F. Benson's "Between the Lights." To get more of an idea of what we do here, though, check out Neil Gaiman’s "Nicholas Was ..." This little story clocks in at exactly 100 words — which is exactly what our tales do as well. We welcome anyone, and the rules are simple:

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog on Saturday, December 17, and email the link to me. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

If you’re new to the group and would like to see some examples, give last year’s stories a gander.

Advent Ghosts 2021: The Stories

2021-12-18T00:02:00.016-05:00

Note: This post will be updated early and often throughout the day. Check back regularly for more stories! Additionally, you can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day, Lady Penelope Hill knew. She had wandered in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning, but since dinner, the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds and a penetrating rain. And anyway, Lady Hill thought, who would want to stroll the estate this time of year alone? For though her maid technically remained in the manor, she knew that she truly was, for all intents and purposes, alone.

The realization had settled on her as slowly as the dusting of snow shifting down out of the slate-gray sky. Her letters to her mother, her sisters, her friends had all failed to draw replies by post. Indeed, she could not recall when the postman had last visited. Just yesterday, she had roamed the great hall, calling aloud for the butler, expecting his hunched, turtle shape to materialize from one of the gloomy passageways. Instead, her voice had drawn her maid. “He has left, my lady,” was all that Penelope had gotten out of her.

Perched tipsily at the head of the dining room table, Penelope lifted a third glass of wine to her lips, musing that I seem to be acquiring all of Billy’s trices. Spices. She hiccupped. Bad habits. But as the claret burned in her stomach, she realized that wasn’t precisely true. And so she found herself swaying before the bookcase in Billy’s study, her finger stroking one book’s spine after another, each in turn.

I suppose it’s preferable that he always wanted to touch these rather than me, she thought a tad drunkenly. Easier now without children. She let her fingers fold around a volume. Draw it down and open it. Let her eyes traipse over the archaic Latin. Let her lips form the strange syllables.

A crash jerked her upright, yanked her eyes to the doorway where her maid stood, a constellation of broken crockery at her feet. “Oh no, my Lady,” the girl moaned, “you mustn’t, no, you don’t under —”

The world shivered. Writhed. Tore.

Lady Penelope Hill blinked and shook her head against the ringing in her ears, the only thing she could hear besides the maid’s frantic mantra of “O Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Every candle in the room flickered and died.

They died, but not before she saw squamous skin and a mouth like a hole and magnesium-white eyes. Then, through the darkness, hands — too many hands — seized her arms, shoulders, throat.

The voice in her ear was wind-stirred ashes in a dead hearth. L̲͉̏ͨet ̏͆̾n͍͌ot̼̥̅̊hͮḭnğ ͨbuṯ̰͇ͥ̊̃ ̥̪b͓͉̰rë́ͅath ̹̺̪p̫̘̣ͫͫ͛aͪs̤̬͕͒ͮ̍s̥͑ ̇y͙̮ͫͣo̘̘͓ů̫͕͐r ͍̃ḹ̘̾ĭ͖͙̩͌̏p̽̓ͭs͚̾,̩̻́ͧ fo̤͒r͍̥ͧ̓ hë̖̫̀ is al͆r̘̋eaͮdy̜̔ ͌h́̑ͫe̼͚ȑ̯̞̟̌̚e̞͈̥ ̻̞ḁ̚n̎d͓͇̺̑ͧ̌ ͉̼̀̐h̲̣ͧ̌e ̮̘͇̄ͨͣis̮̝ͥ̆ ̳̒l̙is̖̍t̟̪e̮͑ň̪̖̩ͦ̇ing͈̫ͮ̐.̏̈

I do believe, some small, still-sane part of Lady Penelope’s mind thought, that it is trembling.

The voice was dead autumn leaves rasping together. I͂ mͫͫ̈́u̯͍ͬ̓s̲̅t̟͔̒̏ t̗ͮell͉̼̼ͮ̈́ͩ ̝̗̋̄ẙ͂̒o͖̽u̩͕ͩ̚ ̭͈͎a ͖̣ṣ͍̂̽to͙͍̙͆ͯͫr̫̪y̯ͪ ̯͓..͚.

• "Grail" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "The Plantation" by James D. Witmer on James D. Witmer
• "Frosty the Disappointment" by Geoffrey Miller (see below)
• "Jetzt bringt Nik’laus was für mich" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Shortcut" by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy Author, Science Fictioneer, Writer of Worlds
• "World of Spirits" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "His Wings" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "Sozman Borkstapple’s Ghostly Adventure" by Brian Sexton on AN ROINN ULTRA: Brian Sexton's Stories From Outer Space
• "The Yule Cat's Fury" by Paula Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "The Cracker" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "The Dreaded Trip" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "I'll Be Home for Christmas" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish: Author, Editor and Hydra-tamer
• "Evergreen Altar, Coal Fire White" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "The Long Tail" by Ben Mann on Ben Mann
• "Life" by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie
• "Despair and Anguish" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "The Season of Giving" by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• "Dirty Hands" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "Flying With the Angels by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "Presence" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Split" by Leanne Stowers on Leanne Stowers
• "Cookies for Santa" and "CONFIDENTIAL: Gates Foundation Project" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Tired Eyes" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• "The Ghosts of Christmas" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• "Out of the depths, it calls to me" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "Who Comes This Night, This Wintry Night?" by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• "Untitled" by Ollwen Jones on GitHub Gist

* * *
"Frosty the Disappointment"
By Geoffrey Miller

Frosty was nearly perfect! Just like in the song, the snowman had a corn cob pipe, a button nose, and two eyes made of coal.

But despite Joanna's efforts, he would not dance. Not even Mr. Thompson's top hat did the trick. She wondered if Frosty looked too human. She packed on more snow. Better! But why wasn't the magic working yet? His arms were twiggy enough. That wasn't the problem.

Suddenly, Frosty sighed with life!

A smile lit Joanna's face but soon faded. Blood dribbled from the corn cob pipe. Frosty still wasn't living; Mr. Thompson was just dying.

("Frosty the Disappointment" copyright 2021 by Geoffrey Miller; used by permission)

* * *
"Jetzt bringt Nik’laus was für mich"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

Worse than corpses, what stench from No Man’s Land? Krampus loose! That claw stabbing his shoulder. Fangs nearing neck... Snapped away on shortened chain – by St. Nicholas, smiling gravely. Rudolf leapt awake, told me his dream. I lost track of him as we advanced... realized the Tommys had retreated!... charged after through trenches full of abandoned... everything! Rudolf outpaced me, avoided boobytraps, discovering first where they took their new stand by coming under fire...

Arms and gear cast away, he advanced toward me smiling, shoulder bandaged, flesh-wounded out of combat, good arm embracing a huge sack of pillaged British rations.

Note: Inspired by details of Carl Heller’s memoirs, De oorlogsbrieven van Unteroffizier Carl Heller, ed. J.H.J. Andriessen (Soesterberg: Aspekt, 2003), sadly not available in translation.

("Jetzt bringt Nik’laus was für mich" copyright 2021 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"World of Spirits"
By Dale Nelson

The first spirit showed him himself as a boy absorbed by Pac-Man. He didn’t want to go outside and play. The second spirit showed him his present-day self, hunched over in his cubicle. Olivia walked sadly past him. The third spirit showed mourners glancing at their smartphones as a coffin was lowered.

"Must these things be?" he cried to the mute and terrible form.

He woke. Snow-light shone up into his bedroom. He leaped out of bed and flung up his window.

"Merry Christmas!" he cried to the street where no one passed. They were all inside with their devices.

("World of Spirits" copyright 2021 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)

* * *
"His Wings"
By Becky Rui

Every time…

The snow crunches underfoot. The railing is icy under his grip. Cars speed by, blowing frigid wind against the back of his thin coat.

a bell rings…

Arm muscles quiver under the strain of pulling, stretching, reaching.

an angel…

The water below seems to rush with the beats of his heart, its dark surface foamy with ice. Numbing.

gets…

His loafer slips and he grabs for the metal. Almost fell. He unclenches his fingers. One by one.

his…

He thinks of what the doctor said. His ex-wife. His estranged children.

wings.

No bells ring. But he does fly.

("His Wings" copyright 2021 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

* * *
"Cookies for Santa"
By William Gregory

My name is Amanda. I’m seven and the smartest kid in school.

My parents tell me not to be average. I’m better than that.

My mom says I hold a grudge too long. I haven’t spoken to Billy Wilson since he pushed me two years ago.

I’m mad at Santa too. Last year he didn’t bring me AirPods. I’m going to sprinkle rat poison on Santa’s cookies to teach him a lesson. I’m a good baker.

… My daddy died Christmas morning. Daddy ate Santa’s cookies. Why would daddy do that? That makes me angry.

Santa got lucky. This time…

("Cookies for Santa" copyright 2021 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"CONFIDENTIAL: Gates Foundation Project"
By William Gregory

Code Name: Project Jabberwocky
Status Report: 12/25/21

Vaccination Rates: Global 50.75%. US 74.35%. UK 85.25%. China 92.88%.
Micro-Implant OS Version: Windows 11 ServicePack 25RFID3
Global Satellite Receivers: Online | Ready
Global RFID Status: Ready
Projected Transponder Efficiency: 98.5325%

MissionOps: “We’ve crossed the 50% Global-VR threshold. Global satellites are online and ready. Shall we proceed with the activation sequence?”
Mr. Gates: “Make it so.”
MissionOps: “Microchip activation sequence in T-minus 6:24:52:01…”
Mr. Gates: “We are on the cusp of a historic new frontier in big data. Kudos to our Project Pangolin team in Wuhan, we couldn’t have done it without you.”

("CONFIDENTIAL: Gates Foundation Project" copyright 2021 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Out of the depths, it calls to me"
by B. Nagel

The voice from the closet said to bring them or else. Midnight, new moon nearest Christmas. Terrence found wet ditch sludge in his empty closet.

Terrence set the saran-wrapped plate on the curb by the storm drain. A whining laugh rose from the catch basin. The voice thanked Terrence as his sneakers slapped back down the street. A boy crawled from the missing grate and crouched, unwrapping the cookies.

Something wrapped around the boy’s leg and jerked him below the street, head cracking on street, then curb. Another dark tendril crept up for the cookies. ‘Mine,’ said a different voice.

("Out of the depths, it calls to me" copyright 2021 by B. Nagel; used by permission)

"Evergreen Altar, Coal Fire White"

2021-12-18T00:01:00.002-05:00

The doctors of the arcane stopped short of calling it omniscience. But William cared little for scholastic debates. He sees you when you’re sleeping, knows when you’re awake — and judges.

And still so many had escaped his wrath.

On this question of theodicy, the doctors remained silent. William cared even less. Any esoteric being could be bound if you knew the shape of the world. Had the will.

Evergreen altar, coal fire white, horn and hoof and yew berry bright.

William had made his list. He would be a Lord in more than name — a Potheride worthy of the title.

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2021

2021-11-17T10:13:00.000-05:00

It is a truth universally acknowledged, thought Lady Penelope Hill, the Baroness Hill of Potheride, that a widowed lady in possession of no fortune must have been in want of a husband adverse to speculating. Or gambling. Or drink. Or wenching. Or in the case of the late Baron Hill, who had gone on to his eternal reward while tipsily attempting to mount a stallion he’d won in a card game, all four.

Lady Hill, formerly Miss Penelople Smith, merchant’s daughter — lover of unladylike pursuits such as playing cricket, riding on the hunt, and laughing at ear-ringing volume over her father’s notorious limericks — passionately hoped that what her deceased husband would receive for his deeds done in the flesh would include sulfur and brimstone and fire. Lots and lots of fire. Even before the funeral, tales had tortuously wound their way to her about his many mistresses, more than she could count on both hands. The whispers and pointed looks had not exactly vexed Penelope, who’d not remained entirely ignorant of Billy’s dalliances.

The resignations from the household staff, though, that had caught her off guard. So had the balances (or lack thereof) in Billy’s bank accounts. And so had the news from a grim-faced solicitor that the proverbial vultures were circling and her days in the estate were numbered unless the Almighty shed a special dispensation of his grace upon her, a grace denominated in pounds and with a great many zeroes at the end of the sum. So far, the much-needed miracle had failed to materialize, and Penelope was down to a pair of servants: a bowed-backed butler who pulled double duty as a cook and a Bulgarian lady’s maid with a wen-marred cheek.

And for all that, Lady Penelope Hill (who knew any paper on which her title was inscribed would soon be worth more than the honorific itself) suspected that she knew only the outermost edges of her husband’s transgressions.

There were hints, clues, traces of something … something … Penelope didn’t know what. Something other. Something worse. The collection of books in indecipherable languages secreted away in a clandestine compartment in Billy’s desk. How the maid would twister her hands into foreign warding gestures whenever she passed by Billy’s old chamber. The way the flames in the hearth seemed to take on bizarre colors in the wee hours that Penelope couldn’t describe. The old blood stains she’d discovered beneath a scattering of straw in the stables, stains upon stains upon stains.

Those stains told stories, and she was afraid what she would hear if she listened ...

* * *
Dear writerly friends, welcome to Advent Ghosts 2021, the twelfth annual shared storytelling event at ISLF. For more than a decade, a group of us have kept alive the peculiarly British tradition of sharing spooky stories around Christmas time. Think of Neil Gaiman’s "Nicholas Was ..." or Jeanette Winterson’s "Dark Christmas" or anything by M.R. James, the best-known figure for spooky Christmas stories. (A couple of my personal favorites are "The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral" and "The Malice of Inanimate Objects.") That’s what we do — except in a very, very short form. Like, 100 words exactly. Anyone can participate, and the rules are simple:

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog on Saturday, December 18, and email the link to me. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

If you’re new to the group and would like to see some examples, give last year’s stories a gander.

Advent Ghosts 2020: The Stories

2020-12-19T00:02:00.016-05:00

Note: You can find an intro of a sort to this post here if you'd like.

Automatic reflex takes over for most of the drive, and when the earbuds start to fail, you obey the voice's instructions, switching on the radio to an AM band. The Windy City rises like a tsunami, bit by bit and then all at once. The fever swells and recedes, a tidal push and pull, nausea riding the crests.

The voice guides you down I-55 and north, Chinatown sliding by on your left, Motor Row District on your right. It gives you simple instructions: Drive up Michigan as far as you can, leave your vehicle where you stop, and walk through Grant Park until you reach Buckingham Fountain.

That's what you do, the door of your rusty Focus snapping shut with a sound like the calving of a wave-battered cliff. Twilit December has cast the car-choked avenue a frigid, submarine blue, bare oaks frozen like brittle fan corals, rimed drifts matching the chilly shades of Lake Michigan. And the people flit through the tree-lined green, a frenetic school flitting this way and that, tending camp fires, fixing tents, stirring cook pots, a confused mass of humanity — and a mass moving without any external impetus.

They come to a halt when they see you.

Strong hands on your arms guide you to a tent that smells of antiseptic and human waste, iodine and soiled linen. You're guided to folding chair that perilously creaks as it receives your weight. You stare at the blighted grass and soft soil beneath your feet, locked into the sudden loss of momentum by your damaged basal ganglia.

"There you are," the voice says. "Look at me, please."

White coat. Shoulder-length, dun-colored hair streaked with gray. A face that would look kind if fatigue and calorie deficit hadn't carved lines of care into it.

"I see you made it. Not many do. Look, I could explain, but I think you'd prefer if I showed you. This—" She holds up an unlabeled pharmacy vial. "—is a dopamine agonist. Turns out it works wonders. Production and distribution may be a problem, but it seems that the world isn't quite ready to end. Would you like to open your mouth?"

You require no further prompting.

"Good. Now, let's hear your story …"

• "Minutes of the Weekly Meeting of the Operation Believe Planning Committee, 12/19/1978, 1900 hours North Pole Time" and "Twelve" by Dan Dykstra (see below)
• "I Saw Three Ships" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Echoes" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "Rudolph123!" by William Gregory
• "Stay" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "And the Enfolding Arms Shall Cradle 'Til Your Last Breath and Beyond" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "The Poison Garden" by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• "Christmas Lights" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "Adventus" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "Tribute" by Paula Gail Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "Swan Song" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish
• "Ghosts" by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie
• "2022" by Kel Mansfield on Write Stuff
• "If Only in My Dreams" and "Mark Ye Well the Song We Sing" by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• "Uncountable Sorrow" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "My Digital Assistant" and "Stumpy's Viewpoint" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "Moaning Stones" by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy Author, Science Fictioneer, Writer of Worlds
• "Listen" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "False Creation" by Michael Morse on By Michael Morse
• "Last Christmas" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• "Dragon Ornaments" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog

* * *
"Minutes of the Weekly Meeting of the Operation Believe Planning Committee, 12/19/1978, 1900 hours North Pole Time"
by Dan Dykstra

Commander Blitzen presiding.

1. MISSION – Reaffirmed something must be done about people saying there’s no such thing as Santa.

2. TARGET – Identified as Mrs. Mildred Brooks of Lexington, Ky.

3. RECON – Agent Comet reported treacherous riparian and arboreal conditions at target’s residence. Motioned that action be carried out Sunday evening when target is anticipated to be in transit. Motion seconded and passed.

4. CONTINGENCIES – Private Prancer reported that elimination of potentially incriminating marks on target’s back is “uh, like, totally under control, guys.”

5. RESOLUTION – Action, though drastic, will provide convincing evidence of Santa to a boy and his grandfather

("Minutes of the Weekly Meeting of the Operation Believe Planning Committee, 12/19/1978, 1900 hours North Pole Time" copyright 2020 by Dan Dykstra; used by permission)

* * *
"Twelve"
by Dan Dykstra

January 5. Christina awoke with a sense of dread.

The app had promised “true love”, and just a week ago Christina was ready to declare Nick the fulfillment of that promise.

Then came the birds.

And the cows.

And the pompous people trampling her well-manicured lawn.

And don’t get me started on those woodwinds.

Nick said it was his way of showing what was in his heart, but all Christina wanted was a new yoga mat and a nice bottle of wine and some damn peace and quiet.

She carefully went downstairs to get coffee.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-A-TAT-TAT-A-TAT-CRASH-BOOM!

Seriously?!?!?!?!?!?!?

“Nick? It’s over.”

("Twelve" copyright 2020 by Dan Dykstra; used by permission)

* * *
"I Saw Three Ships"
by David Llewellyn Dodds

Christmas morning, 1715. St. Nicholas was cheerfully sailing south along the Florida coast. By boat “From Amsterdam to Hispanje” as the Dutch sing? No: the mail boat, San Nicholas de Vari y San Joseph, Pedro de la Vega, master, that is. When… Pirates – again! ‘Sancte Nicolaë, ora pro nobis!’ Two bigger ships, this time! – and the hour of death? Could he show them where the treasure fleet wrecked? Sure – like he did the pirates who looted him yesterday… Looted again, two gold pieces – and when they got there? Death? No, and 1,200 pieces of eight well hidden all the while!

Post Script: This story was inspired by Colin Woodard's The Republic of Pirates (2007), pages 108-109.

("I Saw Three Ships" copyright 2020 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"Echoes"
by Becky Rui

Pounding feet. Panting breaths.

Every morning, the same route. She loved the quiet, empty park. The pre-dawn shadows that danced under her sneakers.

Measured pace. Even breathing.

Glancing left at the rustle of dry leaves. Just an echo of her own noisy feet.

Slight uphill. Faster breathing. Slower strides.

Echoes of feet on pavement. Faster, not slower.

Her stride further slowed, all effort focused on hearing alone.

Faster, louder.

Not hers.

The push sent her sprawling. The body atop her heavy. The fingers on her throat tight.

Feet jerking. Body struggling. Breath panting.

Her gasps echo, but no one hears.

("Echoes" copyright 2020 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

* * *
"Rudolph123!"
by William Gregory

The elves seemed resistant to COVID-23, but Santa was struggling grievously. (His weight problems didn’t help.)

To buoy Santa’s spirits, we reminisced about how Rudolph’s face mask used shine so bright, but Santa only crinkled his eyes with a pained smile.

We lost Rudolph to COVID-19. Dasher and Blitzen to COVID-20. Mrs. Claus to COVID-22.

Doc said we can do no more. The end is near …

How could we save Christmas? What were we to do?

In his dying breath, Santa whispered, “Use my Amazon Prime account …”

But Santa, we don’t know your password!

And then he was gone…

BREAKING NEWS: Kristopher Kringle has passed from complications arising from COVID-23. In other news, AMZN is up nearly 80% in pre-market trading as they are reporting unusually large orders from the North Pole.

("Rudolph123!" copyright 2020 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Adventus"
by B. Nagel

Nissy knelt beside the gunwales, wreathed in spray, watching the foam and snow swallowed beneath the weight of the ship’s advance. Every swell, a reminder of her home. Every slap, her future. The sails stood out in the frigid wind and the brittle sun behind her cast shadows on the waves, destined for sublimation. A piece of her disappeared beneath the ship and her soul rose up.

“[name], come away from the railing. Your husband will be waiting. He didn’t pay for a frozen, salty herring.”

Nissy leapt for the waves and thought of flashing fish, but the irons held.

("Adventus" copyright 2020 by B. Nagel; used by permission)

"And the Enfolding Arms Shall Cradle 'Til Your Last Breath and Beyond"

2020-12-19T00:01:00.002-05:00

Warren saw the news alerts. Everyone did. Still, no family rang. No friends pinged his socials. No fleeing neighbors knocked.

He played PS4 until the grid failed. He ate jerky and G FUEL, rationing the battery on his silent phone.

Midday. The phone dead. Shuffling. Growling. An elderly scream quickly stifled. Sound of splintering bone.

Warren walked to his apartment's door. Unlocked it. Sat. Waited.

Creak of hinges. Staggering steps. Outside the window, fat flakes had started drifting down. A white Christmas after all.

As undead arms encircled his shoulders, tears welled in Warren's eyes.

Finally. Someone who wanted him.

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2020

2020-11-30T11:56:00.005-05:00

In the short amount of time that the experts had to argue — venting their spleen in press conferences, on 24-hour cable news, and in hastily published white papers —they proposed numerous conflicting rationales for the viral spillover. Some posited a natural mutation. Others pointed the finger at insect cell-derived influenza vaccines. A vocal minority condemned lax laboratory security, and while the specific facility to blame varied from account to account, most of the criticism centered around the NIH's Rocky Mountain Laboratories. A few quickly squelched voices muttered about intentional leaks, ancient conspiracies, and one-world governments.

None of it mattered. Quick disbursement of PPE equipment on a global scale might've helped, but it would've required swift worldwide adoption by a wary populace for an indefinite period. In the end, people didn't start to scramble for N95 and nitriles until they noticed that the mosquitoes and dragonflies hadn't arrived with high summer. And then they themselves started to fall ill.

The initial symptoms proved weak when compared to other forms of viral meningitis. A low-grade fever. A throbbing head. A brittle sensation around the neck. General malaise. Sure, it had almost a 100 percent transmission rate, but deaths remained about equal with the common cold. It hardly seemed worth all the furor it elicited in the newspapers and online.

At least at first. Because when patients recovered, they didn't sponge the stale sweat from their bodies. They didn't spoon soup into their mouths. They didn't do at all. Auto-Activation Deficit the doctors called it. Irrevocable damage to the basal ganglia. And people died in their homes, at their offices, on the street, malnourished and dehydrated, fouled by their own filth, full cognizant and unable to act without external impetus.

One day, the only butterflies left were in your chest as you marched out your front door and towards your death, driven by a bone-deep hunger. You found cans of Spam and bottled water in a boarded-up Jewel Osco. You siphoned a gallon of gasoline from a Sheetz, an attendant's body frozen in a chair behind the counter, eyes tracking you.

The first flush of fever hit just outside of Kewanee. You slipped in Bluetooth earbuds and prepared to ride it out, time contracting and dilating as you shivered, sun and moon chasing each other to the horizon. When the shuddering stopped and you tried to crack the window, you found that you couldn't. You arms simply refused to obey.

A burst of static in one ear and then the other. A voice, faint and tenebrous. "Listen, if you can hear me, make your way to Chicago. I'll talk you there. Start your car."

A shiver runs through your hand, and it slowly lifts toward the ignition …

* * *

Welcome, writerly friends, to Advent Ghosts 2020, the eleventh annual shared storytelling event at ISLF. Though few today combine creepiness with Christmas, telling uncanny stories around Advent has a long and distinguished pedigree. Consider a recent article by Nerdist, which discusses how the Cambridge scholar M.R. James terrified friends with his annual ghost stories.
For more than a decade, a likeminded group of writers have kept this peculiarly British tradition going — and we'd like you to join us. All are welcome, and our only rules for participating are ...

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — and I do mean exactly.
3) Post the story to your blog on Saturday, December 19 and email the link to me. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll maintain copyright!)
4) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

What to know what previous years have looked like before you start scribbling away? Read last year's stories.

"Selachimorpha"

2020-10-30T00:01:00.002-04:00

Note: The following was written as part of ISLF friend Eric Douglas’ Halloween-themed story challenge. Please visit Books By Eric for more tales.

The sky above the pool was the color of weathered coral. A gust of wind raised gooseflesh along Samantha's shoulders. She wrapped her arms around her swimsuited middle, shivering in Wonder Woman red and blue, the flesh dimpling about her elbows as she clutched herself against the chill.

"Go on," Daddy said, not lifting his eyes from his phone. "Get in."

Mottled Diamond Brite sloped from a safe depth of three feet to a precipitous ten. In the midday gloom, the pool's nadir looked almost purple.

"What are you waiting for?" Daddy said. It wasn't a question.

Chlorine stench stung Samantha's nose and a shudder slithered up her spine as she lowered herself in inch by inch. "It's cold."

Irritation eeled over Daddy's face as he glanced up. He bent, dipped his hand in, gave a grunt of disgust. He splashed a wave at her face and rose, muttering, "No, it's not. Get going. One lap for every year. Damn Dolphins." His gaze was back on the screen.

Samantha kicked off from the wall, ducking her head in the tepid water—and immediately thrusting it back up. Last Halloween, Peter had been able to pick the family movie. In it, there were people running and screaming on a beach, a man with bushy sideburns and a beard, and a shark big as a boat. Momma had made her leave near the end, but not before Stephanie had seen a man slipping down the splintered deck of a vessel the shark had crunched into, screaming as he slid into the giant fish's toothed maw.

The color of the water that the shark had hove itself out of was the same shade of indigo as the depths of pool's deep end. It was the perfect place for a shark to hide. It was where Stephanie would've hidden were she a shark.

Daddy didn't notice, didn't say anything until Stephanie was halfway through her second lap. "Head down, Chubs. You can't swim freestyle with your head above water."

Keeping her head in wasn't so bad when she faced toward the shallow end. But as she began her third lap, she thought she saw a gray flash in the murk, the outline of a fin against the pool's indigo bottom. She lifted her head straight up, inadvertently shifting into a doggy paddle. As she gripped the pool's lip and drew her knees up to her chin, she heard Daddy's snarl.

"Did you hear what I said?! Head down."

An easy thing, keeping her face down when she didn't have to look at that aquatic murk, wondering what alien thing might rise out of it, vicious and ravening. When Samantha touched the wall for the fourth time, she noticed the lowering sky, the cloudbank dark as a water-logged grotto. But it was her last lap, and she planted with both feet, kicking off with all of her nascent might.

She almost made it through the entirety of that fifth lap—almost. An arm's length from edge, she sucked in a breath, felt the kiss of water against her brow, nose, and chin, and opened her eyes to see pearlescent rows of receding razor teeth rising toward her. Stephanie faltered, flailed, started to shriek and gagged on an inadvertent gulp of water.

A hand encircled Stephanie's arm, a hard hauling dragging her to the pool's concrete lip and lifting until her shoulders, even her navel were above the water. Daddy's face was a cartilaginous gray against the slate sky, the enameled white of his grimace glimmering in the growing semidarkness.

"Again," he said, enunciating every syllable. "You. Will. Do. It. Right."

And Stephanie went again. She flailed at the yielding water with her limbs. She let her lungs begin to burn, to ache. She willed the wall to draw closer, but she didn't dare sneak a breath, unsure of what her eyes would see, wouldn't see—unsure of where the shark now was.

Advent Ghosts 2019: The Stories

2019-12-21T00:02:00.000-05:00

It's not at all what the small group you pried away from the paramountcy expected. You could tell that when you pounded up and pried away the ancient manhole cover, pulled them out into open, and felt the air, how it prickled the scalp, stung the lungs.

Cold. It was cold. No bleak desert. No merciless sun. No arid, choking dust.

You lead them as best you can for someone with no sense of where to go, scrambling through the ancient city's rubble, waiting for the invisible blight of radiation to bruise your skin and make your gums bleed. It doesn't. You wait for the monsters to fall upon you, the unnaturally formed abominations with their many fangs and mutated frames. They don't. You expect for thirst to grow unbearable not long after the last water skin is empty. You find the stream, find where it carved itself clean through a boulevard, an ice-lined channel of water flowing clean and clear.

You decide to stop when you discover the tree.

It rises straight up through the floor of some multi-story ruin, its needle-covered limbs dark and glossy green. Everyone gathers beneath it, staring up through its branches and the open, long-collapsed roof and, above that, the milky swirl of stars.

A sound out in the darkness. A clattering of rubble. Dimitri pops a flare, and Mikhail hefts his pneumatic gun, sighting this way and that in the gloom. The wind whips up, bitter as a goodbye kiss.

Then you feel a small hand in yours, look down to see liquid eyes in a place face. The child asks for the oldest thing of all, the thing that began when darkness was over the face of the deep.

She asks you for a story …

• "Cabinet Meeting" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Jemima and the Fell Beast" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Too Late" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "Wenceslas" and "Slice of Life" by Dan Dykstra (see below)
• "Knotty" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish
• "Christmas Miracle" by Linda Casper on Third Age
• "The Deal" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "Trueheart" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "Give a Dragon a Cookie" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "Christmas Truce On The Western Front" by Kel Mansfield on Write Stuff
• "Untitled" by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy Author, Science Fictioneer, Writer of Worlds
• "The Widow's Solstice" by Yvonne Osborne on The Organic Writer: Yvonne's Writing Blog
• "Slide" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Town Square on a Midnight Clear" by Joseph D'Agnese on Joseph D'Agnese
• "Return Visit" by Eric Douglas on Books By Eric Douglas
• "And Since We Have No Place to Go..." by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• "Silver Belles" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "The Men in the Red Suits" by Michael Morse on Fire EMS Blogs
• "Naughty or Nice" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "Peace on Earth" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "Just for Christmas" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author

* * *
"Cabinet Meeting"
by William Gregory

“Sir, he knows if you’ve been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.”

Are we talking about Shifty Schiff?

“No Sir, it’s a reference to Santa Claus, but you get our meaning?”

Santa has screwed us for years! He can’t keep delivering presents without fair tariffs. And we don’t want his undocumented elf-workers coming across our northern border bringing drugs and crime. They’re rapists! Though some elves, I assume, are good people.

“Mr. President, it’s a metaphor. Santa isn’t real.”

You’re telling me Santa is a hoax? More fake news drummed up by the Democrats?

“Um, yes Sir.”

("Cabinet Meeting" copyright 2019 by William Gregory; used by permission)

* * *
"Jemima and the Fell Beast"
by David Llewellyn Dodds

Note: See this link for the historical background of the real Jemima.

Real dangers (including a Dragon) had only appeared when Jemima the hen fluttered through the mysterious Portal -top of her Cave-Tree (what had her Giant called it, when he spoke Chicken, Out There? – ‘Kiln’?). But now (trapped by her curiosity!), a huge, clawed Beast, white as the snow, snuffled to darken the low entrance, teeth glinting…

Then, over Its shoulder, the strangest Giant, slender, fur-chinned, blood-clad, eyes glistening –

“Don’t eat Jemima” (It spoke Chicken – In Here – and knew her name!). A snort: “I stick to the sweet, you thinuous…” “Karhu!” “Alright, Father Nicholas!” Plop! – a pouch of the sweetest corn!

("Jemima and the Fell Beast" copyright 2019 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"Too Late"
By Becky Rui

“Be quiet!”

“Why are you always bothering me?! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Don’t you ever listen?”

“GO AWAY!”

The angry words bounce around inside her head. But the room around her is quiet. Still. She shifts in her chair, the creaking of her bones louder than the ancient rocker she sits on.

She glances at the pictures of her children. Wonders if they look the same, it’s been so long since she saw them.

“I love you.”

The words evaporate, sucked into the void of the empty room. Quieter than the fistful of pills that rattle in her palm.

("Too Late" copyright 2019 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

* * *
"Wenceslas"
By Dan Dykstra

The frost was cruel, the rude wind’s wild lament dashing through the dark streets. With painful steps and slow, a poor man came in sight. A child shivers in the cold.

“C-c-c-could you h-h-h-hurry, sir? I can g-g-g-go no lon-g-g-g-ger ...”

The bitter sting of tears.

“Your hands, they’re just like ice!”

“S-s-s-sir, what am I g-g-going to d-d-do?”

Forth they went together; the gloomy clouds of night echoing the clanging chimes of doom.

“You can count on me. Stay by my side.”

Down to the village.

“Enter in.” An open fire.

...

Silent.

Death’s dark shadows.

Deep and dreamless sleep.

("Wenceslas" copyright 2019 by Dan Dykstra; used by permission)

* * *
"Slice of Life"
By Dan Dykstra

6:18am. Wednesday. He swings one leg out of bed, then the other. Goes and takes a shower. Brushes teeth, deodorizes, feeds the cats, brews some tea. Lows in the 20s. Yuck. Big coat again. Makes the short drive to the office, passing all the usual bullshit billboards. Shuffles some papers around. Hey coworker. Lunch is soup at his desk. A meeting. A phone call. Repeat. Bye boss. Out the door at 5:01. Picks up frozen DiGiornio. Hey cats. Eats the whole thing by accident while Netflixing. A self-medicinal shot of whiskey. Facebook in bed. Rubs one out. 6:18am. December 26.

("Slice of Life" copyright 2019 by Dan Dykstra; used by permission)

"Trueheart"

2019-12-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

Sir Trueheart was mad, Cecil knew. Cracked by the strain of finding the Lady's blackened body, the search outside the castle for whatever cherufe or salamander was responsible.

Before, Cecil had obeyed Trueheart's enraged commands, ignored his habitual dalliances. But now, he simply couldn't drive the dagger into his bared breast.

"Lord," he stammered, "let us again search outside."

Trueheart seized Cecil's wrist. Thrust in the blade. Jerked down.

There was no arterial gush. Rather a gout of ash, a startled hiss, a flash of flame.

"If only," Trueheart breathed, "it was outside. Cecil, I'll need that dagger once more."

Shared Storytelling: Advent Ghosts 2019

2019-11-30T14:38:00.000-05:00

There's one in every camp. That has to be the most frightening part.

A single madman or cracked woman can be handled, managed, even forcibly silenced in the end. After all, no one knows exactly what roams in the echoing, long-abandoned subway tunnels above, but we do know that things are hungry. A little insanity is to be expected. When you measure the last time humanity saw the surface in generations, you don't find yourself surprised when psyches start to slip. The sight of yet another toddler's legs bowed by rickets. The sooty stench of perpetually burning perimeter fires. The scrabbling, squamous sounds of something with too many limbs skittering through an access shaft. (Or is it somethings?) It's enough to shake even the strongest minds.

But these aren't twitchy crazies, the kind poisoned by paranoia, twisted by the psilocybin they sneak into and out of the grow rooms, peeled back to skin and bones as the simple act of eating becomes increasingly effortful. No, they always seem calm, rational. Until they start to speak.

Male or female, eight or 80, high-town whore or paramountcy chief, they all start talking about the same thing: the hepteract. You'd never made it past basic sums, let alone any geometry. Neither had they, truth be told. Neither has anyone. But they describe it with such vividness that you can almost see its form taking shape in your mind's eye, boggling in its complexity, seeming to glow, to shimmer, to breathe. If you listen to them long enough, they'll begin to detail the hepteract's 128 vertices. Let them finish with that, and they'll start reeling off the coordinates of its configuration matrix as they sketch them in the dust or chip them into a length of depot concrete or (if they find no other materials at hand) scratch it into their own flesh. Always the same numbers. Always the same mandala-like polytope. Always the same words muttered in between the numbers.

"The light. We must return to the light."

The same pattern, and the same end. Down here, few make it to their fifth decade even with every effort bent toward survival. When the paramountcy sends you, none of these last much longer than 15 minutes.

Still, you suppress a shudder as you prod the latest still-warm body with your boot and watch it twitch as you crank the hand pump on your pneumatic pistol. The surface, with its swathes of irradiated rubble, the merciless sun scorching those dry and waterless places. Only horror waits up there — or is it hope? And in the end, which is more terrifying?

Greetings, reader, and welcome to Advent Ghosts 2019, the tenth annual shared storytelling event at ISLF. Does combining spooky stories with Christmas sound a little odd to you? Well, it shouldn't. As Smithsonian Magazine has noted, "It’s no coincidence that the most famous ghost story is a Christmas story — or, put another way, that the most famous Christmas story is a ghost story." For the past decade or so, a group of otherwise unconnected writers has been trying to keep alive the tradition established by Charles Dickens and M.R. James. Won't you join us? All are welcome, and our only rules for participating are ...

1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long—no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog on Saturday, December 21 and email the link to me. Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (You’ll maintain copyright, so don't worry about that.)
4) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.

What to know what previous years have looked like before you start scribbling away? Read last year's collection of stories.

(Picture: CC 2016 by Matt Perron)

Advent Ghosts 2018: The Stories

2018-12-22T00:02:00.000-05:00

Fat snowflakes falling in a shifting sheet by the window. The scent of wood smoke as the fire crackles in the hearth. The goodhearted bickering of the twins as the shake and prod the presents beneath the tree. The warm weight of your spouse's arm around your shoulder, the coolness of the wine flute in your hand, the tang of Prosecco on your tongue. The perfect Christmas Eve.

Then the lights start to go. It begins with the fire, the flames stuttering green and purple. Lost in their squabbling, the twins begin to strobe, their outlines sharpening and derezzing in irregular pulsing patterns. You whirl toward your spouse, mouth opening in a query, but your beloved's face is a blur acrawl with writhing glitches. The bedecked pine simply vanishes, its lights and ornaments dangling in the air. The aroma of burning pine swiftly cycles through the stink of spoiled tuna, nutmeg, talc powder, and leaf mold. And the whole simulation seizes and crashes.

A tumble of synesthesia as you slide out the neural spike, the taste of crash blue, the smell of vertigo, and you surface into the clammy wash of humid air. Another brown out. Outside you hear the arcology's inhabitants stir, the sound of mingled exclamations, curses, sobs. You tilt the rainwater catcher, splashing tepid liquid into a mug, and spoon in instant coffee crystals. Then you mount the stationary bike, begin to pedal. The ham radio's lights begin to flicker, the attached generator converting the pumping of your legs into voltage.

And from its speaker the stories begin to pour ...

• "The Tramp" by James D. Witmer on James D. Witmer
• "Dust" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "Robert Herrick's Inspiration for His 'Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve'" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Trust" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "L’hadlik Ner" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Homecoming" and "Naughty or Nice?"by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "And the Dog Smiled" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish
• "Huldufólk" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "Bring Me Flesh & Bring Me Wine" by John Norris on Pretty Sinister Books
• "Rattle" by Elizabeth Damewood Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "The Choirboy" by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "Schroedinger’s Gift" by Paul Liadis on The Struggling Writer
• "The Little Toy Soldier" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "The Gift" by Linda Casper on Third Age
• "Roasting Over an Open Fire" and "Costume?" by Eric Douglas on Books by Eric Douglas
• "Protected Speech" by David Higgins on Davetopia: Fragments of a Curious Mind
• "Again" by Ken B. on KenBLogic
• "Karma" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "The Last Christmas" by Michael Morse on Rescuing Providence
• "Redcaps" by Ken Leonard on Ken Leonard: Homepage of the Writer

* * *
"Dust"
By Dale Nelson

“Mommy, come see what the funny old lady wrote.”

“Where, Katie?”

“Here in the dust on the windowsill.”

“Can’t right now. What’s it say?”

“….Never mind – the wind is blowing it away.”

Katie was nine. Her mother worked from home.

Each day, Katie found a new message, such as:

“What’s your name?”

(Katie secretly wrote it.)

She never saw the old lady writing, but she saw her peeking and smiling behind the lace curtains across the way.

“Are you happy?”

(No.)

“Come to my house when everyone’s asleep.”

(OK.)

Katie entered the uninhabited house and she’s been gone ever since.

Note: Dale Nelson is the author of Lady Stanhope’s Manuscript and Other Stories, chosen as John J. Miller’s favorite new book of the year in the Claremont Review of Books, Dec. 2018.

("Dust" copyright 2018 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)

* * *
"Robert Herrick's Inspiration for His 'Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve'"
By David Llewellyn Dodds

All day Their gathering grew, glee and malice mounting — unseen, yet sensed — distracting pressure told: Prew broke a bowl and best cream fed only cats, Tom laid the fire amiss, with bounding ember intercepted just in time.

What a vain, shallow priest! — They squirmed, exulting.

‘Master, I’m afeared.’ ‘Prew, a Holly-sprig’s lurking, there. Tom, start hanging the Box.’ He thought of the morrow ‘…a swift witness against the sorcerers…’, softly prayed the evening collect ‘…from all perils and dangers of this night…’. Terrific blaze of light invisible – and headlong scurry to tangled underwood. He toyed with verse ‘So many Goblins…’

("Robert Herrick's Inspiration for His 'Ceremony upon Candlemas Eve'" copyright 2018 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)

* * *
"Trust"
By Becky Rui

The shower turned on. This was her chance. Reaching for his phone on the nightstand, she tapped out the passcode she’d spied in a reflection.

Privacy, late-night meetings, work, these were his reasons—excuses—for the distance between them.

His text menu was empty. Odd. Guilty.

She thumbed open his photos, found an album labeled “B.”

Probably for bimbo.

She expected provocative selfies, braced for them. What she saw was much worse.

Anger disappeared as shock cut through her. Fear made her hands tremble.

She didn’t hear him until he stood behind her. And then she heard nothing at all.

("Trust" copyright 2018 by Becky Rui; used by permission)

* * *
"L’hadlik Ner"

by William Gregory

I love the flickering glow. The way light and shadow dance across the room.

The urge to hold my fingers in the flame until the heat becomes unbearable. Singed, but never charred like the lizard mom found in my room.

Or the fourteen lizards, curled up like crispy strips of bacon in the basement.

Dr. Warren said adolescent boys are curious. Experimental. But this was unusual.

Asshole! Mom took away my matches and Swiss Army knife.

Whatever… I’ve still got my lighter (and razor blades).

“David, honey, come downstairs. It’s time to light the menorah.”

“Okay mom, be right there…”

("L’hadlik Ner" copyright 2018 by William Gregory; used by permission)

"Huldufólk"

2018-12-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

Tanya tawny hair. "So they're, like, elves?"

"Yeah," Steve smirked. Even his jaw seemed to have muscles.

Titus cleared his throat. "They really only share the name."

"Pointy ears and pretty robes and all that?" Tawny asked.

Steve shrugged. "I guess so."

"No," Titus said. "They live in Iceland. In rocks. They're just ordinary people."

"Kid me wanted ears like that," Tawny said.

"Yeah?" Steve said.

"But they're invisible," Titus said, "Utterly invisible."

"So let's catch a movie," Steve said.

Tawny rested a hand on his arm. "Let's."

"Guys?" Titus said. But the air itself seemed to swallow his words.