Merry Christmas!

 

New Poetry for the Christmas

 

Far Away in a Manger

Hail Mary, full of grace

Did childbirth hurt on that first Christmas

Or was labor immaculate too

Free of contact

Free of pain?

Blessed art thou among women

If that were truly the case

Pray for us in our hour of death

Because we seem to be racing toward it

O come, O come Emmanuel

To ransom faith from religion

To remind those who claim to follow

That love still covers multitudes of sins

Until the Son of God appears

Not that they’d recognize you today

Because you’re not white, or Protestant,

Or born in the United States

Rejoice! Rejoice! And mourn in lonely exile

Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!

Oh, the little town of Bethlehem

Seems light-years and centuries away

From our land of the free

Our home of brave believers

Who disregard and disrespect the stranger

Who mock and ignore the poor

Who hide our nation’s sins under a bushel

And tear them from the pages of school textbooks

How far away is that manger now

As we trade no crib for a golden ballroom

And worship a painted calf

Parading in the skin of a bull

The only lowing of cattle

Is the bellowing

From the pulpits of government

The baby is crying

We should all be crying

Blessed is the fruit of thy womb

Of all wombs: red, yellow, black, white

Both foreign and domestic

Created in the image of God

Endowed with inalienable rights

The stars look down where they lay

To see what? —

Hail Mary, full of grace

Remember us in this, the hour of our death

We do not live in the blessings of the immaculate

We live in the world of touch and pain

Where beings from man to woman and back again

Must bump against

The bulk of the other

All day, every day, and I imagine all that bumping

Must be what causes us to hate each other

Enough to put people in cages, enough to bomb innocents

Be near me, I pray, our King of Peace. Amen. Amen.

© 2025 Sean Taylor

Incarnate

 

They say the secret miracle of Christmas

Is Immanuel, God with us,

They say it is the Word becoming flesh

And dwelling among us.

I hear their words,

But I feel they miss the point:

We are already incarnate.

Here from the moment we stood upright,

The day we fashioned clubs,

The year we scribbled pictures onto cave walls.

God has always been with us

Because we were already here.

 

Some say the meaning of Christmas

Is the newborn king,

The Prince of Peace, the son given,

And yet again,

The words fail to reach

Our incarnate ears of flesh.

Lips praise peace, hands and wills abhor it,

A grand idea, but it’ll never work

In the real world of mucous and muscle.

A beautiful notion fluttering too high above the garbage

For us to attempt,

So we sing songs about it instead.

 

© 2025 Sean Taylor

Free Ghost Story for Christmas: The Kit Bag by Algernon Blackwood

 

The Kit Bag 

by Algernon Blackwood

In the grand tradition of the Christmas ghost story, here is a seasonal tale from one of the greats, Algernon Blackwood (certainly one of my favorite horror writers). For more fantastic classic gothic and ghost stories for the holidays, visit The Classic Horror Blog.

Or find the audiobook version here or here.

======================

When the words ‘Not Guilty’ sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC, and leader for the triumphant defense, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.

‘It’s what we expected, I think,’ said the barrister, without emotion; ‘and, personally, I am glad the case is over.’

There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the face felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

‘I’m glad too,’ said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

The counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. ‘Ah, I remember, yes,’ he said with a kind smile, ‘and you want to get away for Christmas. You’re going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren’t you? If I was your age I’d come with you.’

The Best Weapons in the World

Sunday Funnies: Yep, Those Too

Holiday Short-Shorts 2025-- Our Contributors' Gift to You!

 

As the Grinch learned, "Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store." The best gifts come from somewhere inside you, and if you're a creative, that's doubly so. 

In that spirit, our regular contributors to the blog are giving you the gift of holiday fiction. These are all original holiday-themed short-shorts written by our regular contributors. Thrillers. Horror. Crime. Drama. Family. It's all there. 

Happy holidays, everyone!

Note: All stories below are © 2025 by the author and are used here by permission.

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Last Christmas

I found him at last: Nick, skulking beneath the peppermint rafters where the toyshop’s shadows knot themselves into darker tidings, his trembling breath frosting the air like a naughty whisper. For centuries he’d dodged me, unraveling my spells, undoing my careful work, poisoning the holly with his sanctimonious shine. But tonight, sleigh bells rang for me. I crept closer, boots silent on sugared snow, heart humming with the warm thrum of justice long delayed. Now the North Pole is quiet again, and in the stillness, I savor the sweet, sweet taste of a world set right beneath my merry, crimson grin.

        -- Evan Slash Reed Peterson

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A Show for the Holidays

"Thank you," said Byron, as he took the mug of hot chocolate from his P.A. "It's just what I wanted. Well, more like what I needed."

"Sugar and just a little bit of the cold coffee poured in for caffeine and a kick."

Byron smiled. "Just what the doctor ordered."

"Enjoying the party?" Janet asked. "You don't strike me much as a partygoer."

"I'm not. I'm just here..." His voice trailed off. "Well, I'm here for something I want to see later."

"Oh," Janet mused. He meant the announcement of the big layoff for the lowest rung. His own suggestion for cutting 'unnecessary costs.'

The antlers on her Christmas moose sweater flopped as she motioned for him to take a sip. He did, downing a gulp before stopping with a weird facial tick. 

"Ooh. Cardamom? Nice touch."

She nodded. 

Cardemum, she thought. And the assload of thallium sulfate I put in the mug. There would be something to see, all right, but not the show her boss expected. 

        -- Sean Taylor

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Home for Christmas

Evie stepped up the familiar redstone steps to the front door of a house she once knew like family. She turned back to look down the steep hill toward the pine trees and the street and was sure, for half a second, she caught a glimpse of another house at another time, far but not so far from her. 

“Get on in here. It’s gettin’ chilly out.” Evie jumped and turned back to the door. 

“Momma?”

The woman smoking a cigarillo and dressed in a bright red sweater pushed the door wide to let Evie in. “You weren’t expecting Santa, were you?” She smiled. 

Evie couldn’t help but laugh. She’d forgotten that joke. It’d been so long. “Not yet.” She rushed to hug her momma, door slamming against her back. 

“I know. It’s been a long time.” Momma wrapped her arms around her. “But don’t you worry. We’re all here, and now we can have a real Christmas.”

The living room was lit by the enormous live Douglas fir in one corner of the room. Evie’s daddy was on a ladder hanging handmade wooden ornaments. It glistened with silver tinsel and huge colored lights, just like momma loved. She remembered how he used to give them to her children and her sister’s children when they were little. Her daughter still put them on her tree. 

Her daughter…

She gazed out the large window decked in large bubble lights. Just on the edge of the horizon, she could see her girl making ribbon cookies like she used to make until the year she couldn’t read the recipe properly. 

A tug at the shoulder brought her back. “Evie! Evie! Did you bring any cookies?”  She turned and saw the soft, impish face of her brother. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She should be with her daughter, not here. This is the wrong place and time. 

“I need to sit down, I think.” 

Momma led her to the couch. “Leave her alone, Mikey. I wondered when it would hit her.” 

Evie took in the scene. She was at home with her family at Christmas. There were bowls of candy on every flat surface, just as always. It felt normal and right, but then there were the other memories and other family just past her reach and on the edge of what felt real now. Daddy came down from the tree and sat with them. 

He patted her hand. “We’re all here. We’ve waited for you for a long time, Evie.” 

“You and momma keep saying this. Does that mean?”

“It means we are all together again!” Momma smiled and clapped her hands. “Your brother and sister will be here soon and we’ll have Christmas dinner, and it will be fine.” 

Evie went to the window and pointed out. “And what about them?”

Daddy joined her and squinted as though he could see what she saw. “She’ll bake those cookies and tell your stories. They’ll be with us soon enough.” He hugged her. 

Behind them, the dulcet voice of Brenda Lee began a verse of Jingle Bell Rock. Momma danced in with a plate of homemade cookies and hot chocolate. 

“Here’s those cookies you wanted, Mikey.” 

The teenaged boy laughed, and Evie couldn’t help but laugh too. It was good to be home.  

        -- Jessica Nettles

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An Encounter With Santa

“Santa!” the boy exclaimed.

He hoped the kid wouldn’t see him. Dressing as Santa to rob a bank during a Christmas party was smart, but he regretted sneaking into his ex’s place to hide a few bills in his kid’s stocking. He hoped the kid didn’t see the large roll of hundreds peeking out of his red pocket. 

Playing it cool, ‘Santa’ deepened his voice and whispered, “Well, Bill...you caught me. I was just about to leave you a special present.”

“But where’s your bag of toys?” Billy sighed. “Mom’s always complaining about how Dad never has enough…”

Always about the money, ‘Santa’ mused. Part of the reason they divorced was that he was a hard-working Joe who was hardly working in this economy. Ask her and she had “high standards”, but he felt she was more “high maintenance.” He did all he could to see his son, but he never seemed to have time…

Remembering where he was, ‘Santa’ crouched by the boy and whispered, “You want to see your dad, huh?”

“More than anything!” Bill beamed. 

“Tell you what,” Reaching into his pocket, ‘Santa’ withdrew a hundred dollar bill. “I’ll be bringing your toys later tonight, but you have to be asleep. I’ll also...uh...swing by your dad’s place and let him know. I’ll make sure you meet him at your favorite place tomorrow.”

Clutching the money in his hand, Bill beamed as he went back to bed.

Glancing around the room, ‘Santa’ saw two stockings pinned to a decaying entertainment center. One said “Mom” and the other said “Bill”.

Pulling off a few hundred-dollar bills, he placed them in the stocking marked “Mom.” He hoped that she would spend them on Bill, but he knew better. 

As he heard her stir from her sleep, ‘Santa’ crept out the door. He already had plans to launder his stolen loot, hidden in a cubby hole in his apartment. Tomorrow, he would hopefully meet Bill at their favorite park.  He doubted it, but if it happened, it would be the best Christmas present ever. 

That and avoiding arrest. 

        -- Gordon Dymowski

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If Only In My Dreams

The house felt warm and cozy. Familiar. Loving. Safe. Inviting. The crackling fire in the living room filled the air with a hint of pine. Pleasant, it mingled well with the aromas emanating from mother’s kitchen. That mixture clung to his memory as powerful now as the first time. Mother’s voice, the sound of an angel, sang an old Christmas tune. She was slightly off-key, but that only added to her charm. He missed that sound. Father would avoid the kitchen, of course, cutting his beloved a wide berth until time to fix his plate. Turkey, ham, potatoes, dressing, gravy, green beans, and cranberries with fresh-baked rolls on the side. If nothing else, the family ate well on Christmas Day.

Just the way he remembered it.

It had been at least a decade since he last saw them. Even more time passed since those early holiday treats where family came together in love and compassion. One big mistake brought his life crashing down around him. Things were never truly as wonderful as his fractured memory, of course. No. Things were never as good in reality. That’s why he slipped so frequently into fantasy. Pulling the threadbare blanket tight around him, he closed his eyes and once more opened the front door and stepped back into a fond memory, slightly rewritten to recall only the good memories. Smiling, he stood in his mother’s kitchen and closed his eyes. It was good to be home again for Christmas.

If only in his dreams.

        -- Bobby Nash

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The Christmas Spirit

The holidays are always pregnant with memories. They used to be the happy ones, cooking the ham and mac and cheese together with Mom, tugging the fake beard off Dad's face and laughing, those kinds of things that made up the Norman Rockwell part of my life. 

Now the memories are darker, more melancholy, what I used to call bittersweet. Now I see only the open casket, the flowers that were already dying in the church, the people crying, the mechanical clicking as the expensive funerary box was lowered into the dark womb of soil. 

The fire in the hearth no longer gives me warmth. The feast has no flavor, so I have given up on trying to enjoy it. I ignore the presents under the tree. None are for me now anyway. 

My room is cold. Everything remains just as it was before, all my posters still in place, mostly just a little crooked, my cheap brand Les Paul guitar silent on its stand, my bed never unmade, not even when I lie down and try to sleep. 

The family gathers as usual. I watch without eating. I wait and listen. No one even attempts to draw me into the conversations. 

But they will later. They will after dinner, at least those who still visit the graveyard. I will travel with them, for then, they will remember I'm still a part of the family. Then, and for most, only then, will they speak to me.

Of course, they will never hear my answer-- nor even expect a response. Never again. 

-- Sean Taylor

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Down Through the Chimney

I opened my eyes. A sound from the roof woke me. “Santa?” I mumbled in my half-awake state.

The tin roof gave the distinct sound of sharp clicks followed by the soft tread of a padded foot. My mind recalled the old song, but it definitely wasn’t reindeer paws. Rolling out of bed, I ran to the window. Something growled from above me. I closed and latched the window, stepping back.

The sound, which started furtive, grew louder as something rushed towards the chimney on the other side of the house. I tracked the unseen visitor’s path as it thudded across the roof. The large open space gave me a perfect view of the fireplace. Too warm for a fire, it sat empty, a dark maw in the far wall. No stocking hung, no tree decorated. Just a sad room not ready for the current season. Grunts and scrapes drew my attention; this wasn’t Saint Nick descending. My feet refused to move as my heart pounded. Each echoing sound drew an involuntary flinch. The metal flue, still closed, groaned as an immense force pulled at it. Each bolt popped free, and I heard it drop to the metal grate where burning embers would sit in cooler weather. 

A dark shape lowered within the recess, a shadow within the shadows.  Bright yellow eyes turned and glared at me. My bladder emptied. No gifts this year, I must be on the naughty list.

        -- Seth Tucker

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The Night After Yule

Yule feast was done; trenchers stacked,

Pine needles underfoot, offerings packed.

All slept in the turf-house, children and gran;
Father lay dead-drunk like a felled, snoring man.

Only Mother stayed awake by hearth’s red glow,
Stitching knotwork on cuffs, sewing slow.

Through a shutter-gap Father swore he’d mend “soon,”
The aurora ran green on the snowlit dune.

Then bells—jangle, clatter—on leather drew near,
Not neighbor-folk homing; too many, too queer.

“Is it her?” breathed Daughter, as shutters went tap.
Mother murmured, “Hush now. Stay deep in your nap.”

“Will she take what we left?” whispered Son, pale with dread,
“My brightest cloak-pin? The sausages, the bread?”

“It isn’t the gifting,” said Mother. “Be still.”
“It’s how you’ve behaved; every deed, every ill.”

They remembered the summer: Father gone to the sea,
Grandmother ignored; the loom toppled with glee;

And sheep chased for sport till the byre rang with cries,
So they pleaded, “Hide us! We’ll help! We’ll be wise!”

“We’ll tend all the fires, wash dishes, and mind cows!”
Mother sighed, set down the thread, and slipped out, making no vows.

A whisper in darkness. The door swung with cold.
Grýla stooped inside, sack yawning wide, so bold.

Cat-eyes flashed ember; one finger: “Hush—hush.”
She drifted to Father like smoke in a rush.

She hefted drunk Father, still snoring, half-fed—
In the sack, he disappeared like a log from the shed.

Bells skated off. Night swallowed her track.
“Next Yule,” Grýla growled, “if they’re trouble, we’ll be coming back.”

        -- H. F. Day

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The Cold Side of the Bed

My wife died two days into Hanukkah but was back by Christmas. Her side of the bed remained empty only between her death and the evening after the funeral. She rested soundly, but never slept, never spoke, never offered a single argument against me, nor volunteered an explanation of why she had returned. 

She simply smiled using eyes, teeth, mouth, and dimples. Sometimes she stared, reclining in the dark green dress in which she had been buried, the silk gown that matched the one hanging in my side of the closet, for when we chose to "twin" on our dates. Each morning she was gone, and the sheets beside me were a good ten degrees colder than my side. 

Only once did she sit up and reach for my hands. I had made the mistake of drinking too much coffee before bed and couldn't sleep. She lay still until she saw the little dirt-colored bottle of pills. But she sighed silently and lay back down when she saw I only swallowed two of the round tablets. 

"I'm sorry," I told her. "I really am. I know we agreed, but I just couldn't do it. I didn't have the courage." 

She said nothing, merely smiling and staring, while I turned away so she didn't have to see me weep.

-- Sean Taylor

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Home for the Holidays

“Tonight is the fifth Christmas Eve since she died,” Jeremy said.

Dr. Morst nodded. “And how are you feeling about that?”

“I’m kind of used to it now,” he said. His hands twisted in his lap, squeezing and rubbing his fingers as though they ached. That would be difficult, since they were only stubs now. He’d lost most of his fingers when he was found in the snow, weeping and digging into the ice-cold earth of the cemetery with his nails, not long before he was assigned to Dr. Morst’s service.

“This is the night, then?” 

Jeremy stared down at what remained of his hands. “She scared the hell out of me the first time. Just her voice, on the other side of the shower curtain. Thought for sure I was nuts. Now I guess we know it, eh?”

“I don’t really care for the word ‘nuts,’ but I don’t think you’ve given yourself enough credit for the work you’ve done so far,” Dr. Morst said. 

“Not enough to get out,” Jeremy said. “The second time was while I was driving, and I crashed the car. The third time I tried visiting her grave, and that’s how I came to your tender graces, doc.” He finally stopped rubbing his stubs together and instead tugged at the soft restraints. 

“What about last year?” Dr. Morst asked. “You were committed before Christmas, but you still weren’t speaking to me.”

“I guess I have made progress then,” Jeremy said. “Last Christmas Eve, she was whispering under my bed in the ward. Home for the holidays. I screamed a little bit, and the orderly gave me a shot. I could use more of those shots, doc. It’s the only time I sleep.”

Dr. Morst tried not to check his watch. There was no clock in the room, but the shadows were getting long, and he was really hoping to make it home in time to wrap his wife’s present before she came home from work.  “Do you only hear her, or do you see her?” 

Jeremy looked up at him. “Her voice is terrible enough. I don’t want to see her. She’s louder every Christmas, ever since she died. Please, doc, I need you to make her stop.”

Despite himself, Dr. Morst felt a tug of pity. Jeremy was so earnest and quite articulate since he regained the power of speech. “Your new meds have been working so well, Jeremy. Trust in yourself, trust the progress you’ve made.”

“That’s worse, doc,” Jeremy said, tears starting in his eyes. “If I keep getting better, I’m afraid she’ll get angry. So angry. Every Christmas Eve.” He paused. “She’s probably upset about me killing her.”

A knock at the door told Dr. Morst it was time to stop. He waited while the orderlies took Jeremy back to his cell, and then he could glance at his watch. Barely enough time left to get home before Sandra, so he hustled back to his office to put on his coat and grab his briefcase. 

As he checked out of the ward, he could hear the commotion back behind the bars. It was Jeremy, screaming again. 

-- Elizabeth Donald

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Heavenly Peace

Wind screamed around the tent, threatening to cave in the canvas and polyester on top of me. In the midst of the banshee-like weather, another sound fought to cut through. A howl. Long and mournful, with a sort of rumble in it, like gargling a chainsaw. 

When the winds paused every ten or so seconds, I heard footsteps crunching the leaves around my tent. I had chosen my spot for privacy rather than a public campground to be alone for the holidays, and my view of the valley and the river below had been worth it -- at first. But now, alone at night with god-knows who -- or what -- stamping around outside, I wasn't so sure. 

A single point of pressure pushed in on the canvas wall, and I jerked around to shine the flashlight on it, but just as quickly, it was gone. Moments later, the other side bubbled in and then straightened. 

Trembling, I crept to the front and unzipped the flap a few inches, just enough to see out. A huge silhouette stood enshadowed by the bright moonlight. It reeked. It turned, and I caught only the glow of its eyes, the same shine as any other wild animal at night. In its hand -- it had hands, not paws -- hung a dead rabbit. 

Leaning down, the beast-man placed the animal on a stone beside the still flickering embers of my fire. It turned to face me. The chainsaw of its voice rumbled again. 

Then it was gone. 

After a few minutes, when I could no longer sense it nearby, I stumbled outside and checked the fire and the rabbit it had left. A clean kill. A broken neck. No pain. 

I forced a grin. 

"Merry Christmas to you too, big guy," I said. 

-- Sean Taylor

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See the Blazing Yule before Us

Tim patrolled along the backside of the graveyard behind the Maple Street Methodist Church as snowflakes began to flutter around him. He remembered a time when the cold would have bothered him, and he would have rushed to the small brick house not far from here to start a fire, make a hot toddy, and settle in with a good book. 

He wondered who sat at his fireplace now. It’d been almost a full year since he’d taken the mantle of grim and been transformed into the semi-eternal black-dog guardian of this congregation, both dead and alive. The former grim, a gentleman who’d served as grim for more than eighty years, faced off against a gang of young, ambitious vampires, but it came close to ending him. He searched out a replacement and discovered Tim, who’d just been buried after a terrible motorcycle accident over on 41 Highway coming back from karaoke. 

So here he was now, patrolling. After the vampire thing, there’d been a few stray vandals and a couple of witches who wanted to raise some hell in his cemetery that they’d dealt with together, but Tim knew that Jez was fading. His time of training was coming to an end. It was more than most grims got, to be real. He’d discovered he could enter buildings without being seen, even beyond the church grounds, so he went to the library and read up on his new career. Being a grim was serious business. Guarding the church against demons and evil, death announcements, and generally being a good dog. It wasn’t like being a human, but it was better than an eternal dirt nap for sure. 

Tonight, he felt a difference in the fabric of things around him. The air, the snowflakes, even the lights from the houses and the trees that were decorated outside seemed thin and strained. 

A cough drew his attention. “Jez?” he woofed. 

“Quit dawdling, kid. It’s almost time.” The elder grim, a broad-shouldered black Shepherd with flecks of silver around his face, stepped from around a gravestone that looked like a small angel. 

“I’m not dawdling, dude.” Tim sniffed the crisp air and nipped at the flakes, which were getting fluffier by the second. “Besides, we’ve got until the end of the year, right? It’s not even Christmas Eve.”

Jez dropped his head and sighed, the way he did when Tim said something stupid. 

“What did I say?”

“Tonight is Yule…winter solstice,” said Jez. The snow began to stick to his fur, adding to the silvery halo around his face. 

Tim blinked. “And?” 

Jez nosed him hard and woofed, “You dumbass. I thought you’d read up on traditions. The Inside, here with the living, and the Outside, where those who are not living reside, the veil thins. My time ends tonight. I leave for the Outside permanently. This gig becomes yours.” 

“Well, shit.” Tim knew but thought he had a few more days…weeks. 

A jaunty fiddle rendition of “The Holly and the Ivy”  from the center of the graveyard. Jez chuckled. 

“Ol’ Bobby-Jack is warming up.” Tim saw a tall, lean figure of a man wearing overalls begin wandering through the stones. 

Jez howled and trotted toward his friend. Tim followed. 

The lights from the neighborhood around them dimmed as a single bright glow of gold, silver, green and red rose at the center of the graveyard. What should have been silent and dark was filling with people Tim hadn’t met before, dressed in all manner of ways from various times. There were three young ladies in pink and green fitted dresses with skirts poofed out by crinolines and decorated in tacky 50s-style Christmas trees. Nearby were several gentlemen in top hats and tail coats, checking their pocket watches and exchanging small gifts. An entire group of tiny children was running around, giggling and playing like they hadn’t had a chance to in a while, and several younger women dressed in longer skirts chased after them. One lone gentleman wandered among them, making sure everyone had a bite of candy out of a white bag he held in one hand. In one corner of the graveyard, the fir that looked so alone and grim most of the year stood tall and was covered in tinsel. Tim was sure he could smell hot cider. 

The man with the candy bag climbed up on a rather large stone, and a cup appeared in his hand. 

“Blessed Yule, my friends! Blessed Yule! Tonight, we welcome our dear friend and guardian, Jeziziah Mason. He has been our grim for lo these eighty years.”

“Here! Here!” Several voices shouted from around them. The man shushed them. 

“He comes to join us in the Outside and leave the hard work to young Tim McBride here, who I believe is worthy to fill Jeziziah’s shoes…or rather paws! Anyway, here’s to them both!” He lifted his cup as did the whole party. 

Tim glanced at Jez. “So this is it?” 

“Consider it your Christmas gift, kid.” Jez bumped up against him. 

“Gee, thanks. I don’t even get an instruction guide?” 

“You’ve had a year with me. You’ll do fine.” 

Jez stepped forward and shook his body. His fur began to fade away. He put his front legs up on the gravestone where his friend stood. Then he shifted from dog to his former human form. Tim was not shocked that Jez was broad-shouldered and built like a blacksmith. What did surprise him was the dark black hair and the dance of joy the man did as he changed. 

Jez turned to him and gave him a broad grin. “Blessed Yule! Now go kick some ass.” 

        -- Jessica Nettles

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While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night

Hazel stood in the cold wind, her skin bubblng up with goose pimples. She looked like a plucked chicken, she knew, but what did she care. She was way past her glory days. Who the hell was she planning to impress now? 

The little row of fir trees on the other side of the road were strung up with lights, and a wooden, hand-painted sign that read "Merry Christmas! God Bless Us Every One!" was nailed to the base of the center tree. 

She pulled the phone from her back pocket and took a photo, but when she searched her contacts, she realized there was no one to send it to, not really. No one who would be expecting anything from her, especially something like a photo of something she thought was cute. Only friends did that. 

Her friends sat squarely in her rear-view. 

The motorized rattling of the cab -- a converted minivan -- emerged from the curve about a hundred yards to her left. It stopped on the road barely a yard from where she stood. 

"Happy Christmas!" said the driver, a Middle-Eastern man with a large bald spot. "Big day, huh?"

Hazel shrugged. 

"Where to, Miss?"

"Is there a diner close where I can get some hot chocolate?" she asked. 

"Sure. Good pie too." He held on to his big, wide smile as though it kept his face from falling apart. "After that?"

She shook her head. "After that, it doesn't matter."

She climbed in and dropped her duffel bag on the seat beside her. As the cab made a U-turn and rattled away back up the road from where it had come, she glanced back long enough to see the Hollis Country Penitentiary sign disappear behind the trees.

        -- Sean Taylor

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Krampus at the Bass Pro Shop

“You ain’t Santa!” roared the great horned figure that pushed its way through the front window of the Bass Pro Shop. 

My fake beard dropped to my feet as I stood up and pushed the small girl who moments before sat on my lap, asking for a toy I’d never heard of between me and my plywood throne. “And you ain’t the clerk I sent to get me hot cocoa and cookies either.” 

The parents screamed louder than the kids, as the hairy demon bashed the gigantic moose near the registers with his holly-bound staff and clacked his hooved feet against the tile floor. 

A voice in my head whispered, He knocked ‘Rain clear out like she was a doll. Ava is froze. 

That was bad news. I’m pretty powerful, but not Krampus powerful, and familiars can only do so much. I guess I should explain. I’m ‘Rain’s familiar, Zeke. I can appear in lots of different ways. Usually, I’m a possum. Today, I’m a really bad Santa. I don’t human that well. 

The demon paused and grabbed one of the clerks in the gun department and stuffed him in the bag. “You’ve been stealing from the store, mister!” 

The little girl behind me bolted and when the rest saw her make a run, the others followed, even the adults. Krampus turned and snapped his clawed fingers. “Not yet. I get my due. It’s my night.” He pointed at me. “And YOU know it even if you ain’t Weihnachtsmann.” The crowd froze in place, and the only sound in the store was George Michael singing “Last Christmas.” Not only was I being threatened by some angry German Christmas demon, but he managed to send me to Whamhalla.

“I don’t know who that is, so you’re right. I ain’t that guy. Still, you don’t get to scare little kids on my watch!” I focused and shaped my magic into a sword. He’d try to kick my ass, but not without a fight. 

‘Rain’s up and she’s pissed. Iva, one of ‘Rain’s sisters and fellow witch spoke in my head. 

Well, get your asses over here pronto. 

Krampus laughed as he moved through the aisles of sportswear and fishing equipment. “Weihnachtmann…he has possums working for him now?”

“It is the South? Who did you expect? Some guy named Bubba?” I raised my weapon. 

He dropped the bag filled with gun clerk and drew back his staff. It glowed a menacing crimson. “Don’t mention that name.” He growled. 

“Bubba. What? Is he on your naughty list too? Oh, that’s too bad. I’m gonna take you down long before you get to him.” I began to chant an ancient spell I learned from an old Scotswoman 200 years ago. My sword glowed bright gold like a star. I felt a lightness fill me and song flood through me. All I could do is laugh. 

What the hell is that, Zeke? Iva’s voice punched through the choir in my head. 

All I remember is rushing him and seeing his eyes go from cold and confident to mortal terror in two seconds flat as I swung my sword and it bit into him. The scent of pine, hot cocoa, and the sharp edge of fresh snowfall surrounded me as I attacked over and over again. When it the energy, light, and scent faded, all that was left was the sack and the young gun clerk passed out on top of it. Before I passed out myself, I swear it was snowing in the Bass Pro Shop. I guess Christmas magic and maybe this Weihnachtmann guy is real after all. I mean, why the hell not? 

        -- Jessica Nettles

Book Review: The Stars Within (Stefan Petruca)

From the Back-Cover Blurb:  

Wyrm’s mother always told him he was special, that he was the World Soul who’d bring peace to the galaxy. But she’s babbling now, committed to an asylum, leaving the sickly 10-year-old on a perilous journey to find his father.

That father is none other than Anacharsis Stifler, the man who discovered the Plasma in old Earth’s ruins, a weapon that’s allowed the atheist Archosians to liberate planet after planet from their superstitious beliefs, whether they want to be liberated or not.

When Anacharsis returned to Earth to find a cure for his wife, he vanished, setting off not only Wyrm’s desperate trek, but an invasion of the fragile world by Archosian High Commander Sebe Mordent, who can’t allow anyone else to find whatever secrets remain.

Meanwhile, the Pantheon, an uneasy collection of diverse faiths, approach their old foes, the Kundun Slave-kings, in the hope of forming an alliance to stop the atheist expansion. En route, Wyrm is forced to throw in with a manipulative gender-shifting alien, a war criminal, a genocidal female scientist, and the childlike woman Calico.

But is Calico harmless, or a visitor from Earth’s past sent to judge whether humanity is worth preserving? The Stars Within is a sprawling sci-fi epic, populated with complex, at times flawed, at times heroic, but always real characters.

Political intrigue, theological musings, and a tightly-woven action-driven story play out in six intertwining narratives set in a fully realized universe on the verge of mass war.

Here's my review:

The Holiday Watchlist

Holiday flicks I try to watch each year:

• Anna and the Apocalypse
• The Hogfather
• Rare Exports
• Black Christmas (1974)
• Gremlins
• Violent Night
• Christmas in Connecticut
• Muppet Christmas Carol
• Santa's Slay
• Scrooged
• Slay Belles
• It's A Wonderful Life
• Letters to Satan Claus
• Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
• The Little Drummer Boy
• How the Grinch Stole Christmas
• A Charlie Brown Christmas

 

 

 

 

 

 

Movie Reviews for Writers: If You Believe

This Hallmark-style Christmas fantasy rom-com is my new, second-fave contemporary version of the Scrooge story (not that there isn't a huge gap between it and the number-one on the list, Scrooged, with Bill Murray and Carol Kane). Susan is a book editor for a big publisher who hasn't had a hit in a long time, and she has lost her zeal not only for the job but also for the people in her life. So, instead of three ghosts, she is visited by her inner child. Little Suze appears in her apartment one particularly awful day and won't go away, determined to remind Susan about the joy that she used to derive from both people and from her work finding and presenting new authors and new books to the world. 

After that, we get a lot of Hallmark city girl meets country boy tropes, but luckily, keeping the story centered in the publishing world makes it feel more original than merely formulaic.

But first, before the movie gets into any of that, we see a younger Susan at a Thanksgiving dinner, where she and her stick-in-the-mud husband Peter bicker as she brags about a wonderful new writer she has discovered. 

Susan: Last week, I found the most extraordinary first-time writer.

Susan's Father: Sounds great.

Susan: He's beyond great --

Peter: Susan, darling, you know I hate it when you gush. William Faulkner is great. Dylan Lewis is just okay.

Susan: I thought you liked him, Peter.

Peter: I do like him. I also like Donne. It doesn't mean I think it's great.

Regardless of Peter's party-pooper vibes, Dylan becomes a best-selling author and helps cement Susan's place at work. However, the honeymoon doesn't go on forever. By the time the movie begins in the present, Susan is trying to get new pages from a very late Dylan. Not only that, but she has one author already two advances in with nothing to show for it and another writer unavailable because she's in for treatment at Betty Ford. 

Susan: Dilly. Dylan, pick up, I know you're there. We need to talk. We have now entered the realm of the ridiculous. Walter is extremely upset and I have lost what little patience I have left. I need a real date when you are going to be finished, all right? No more excuses. Call me.

All these things lead Susan to question the choices that led her to her career. She isn't dating. She isn't doing anything she used to enjoy. She has become a sort of professional recluse and shut-in, at least outside of the office. 

Io Saturnalia!

Enjoy your celebration of the solstice!

Free Holiday Short Story -- "Nor Doth He Sleep"

  

This story originally appeared in Cyber Age Adventures Magazine and is collected in my short story collections Sin and Error Pining and Show Me A Hero by Taylorverse Books.

Nor Doth He Sleep
By Sean Taylor
An iHero Entertainment Holiday Story

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As the knife bit into the girl’s back, it pierced to the hilt, and a wet, red stream poured from the incision. Red and green lights from the street decorations blinked into the alley, flicking the scene from gray dirt and faded concrete to colorized extravagance and back to gray again The man watching impotently from a few feet away jerked against the two grunts holding his arms, but he couldn’t pull away. His fiancé lay on the ground, face pressed against the pavement, sputtering and coughing through her tears. On her back sat a third thug, a slug of a man in a denim jacket, his wrists all but rolling fat skin back to cover the cuffs as he played with the knife, wiggling it without removing it from the meat a few inches above the girl’s waist.

“Let her go!” he yelled, but in response all he got was a punch in his gut.

The two guys holding him laughed when he gasped to regain his breath.

“Let her go, damn it!”

Another gut punch.

“Or what? You’ll cry?” asked the tallest of the thugs, a white guy with green hair whipped about like a pretty boy in one of those Japanese comic books.

“Or cough up blood?” said the other thug, a squat muscle-head with fat arms stuck to his otherwise fit torso. “Or puke on us?”

Pretty Boy glared at Fat Arms, and he shut up.

Motivational Monday: Courting Insanity

Happy Hanukkah!

 

The 2025 Indie Author Holiday Book Catalog

No doubt you've already received your catalog from Amazon and a thousand other retailers for your holiday shopping. Well, we didn't have your address, so we decided to post our recommendations for seasonal book-buying for those readers on your list (or yourself!). All these titles are from regular or new contributors here on the blog. 

Thanks for supporting our contributors.

Enjoy the books!

Tales of Silvertide, Volumes 1&2; Collections of short stories that cover a wide selection of characters who are just starting their journeys as heroes.

Fantasy, imagine if The Ranger's Apprentice met the Dragonlance books.

To purchase and for more information: https://tinyurl.com/27fp2s8s

It's 1932, and America is preparing for the LA Olympics. But in the midst of one of the stormiest winters on record, the rain is murder--literally. Men are dropping dead of the storm and the city is panicking. A former Great War airman is dragged into a plot to terrifying America to staying neutral in the next World War. Along with a small group of determined allies, he will take the battle from the streets of Hollywood to the forests of the Amazon. There they will find their destiny--those who survive... No. 1 in a series.

To purchase and for more information: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00T44SLHC

Cemirowl is gifted, and cursed. She sees the spirits of the dead, and sees the future in her basket of bones; her sight is cryptic, lacking, and mostly useless. In her tiny village, she is a priestess, but still an object of curiosity and an outcast.

A chance meeting brings one of the king’s caballiers to her door for a reading, for nothing more than some entertainment. He is well-entertained indeed by her predictions of his lady loves… and far less so when she foretells a coming death. He leaves, dismissing her. But for all that her power is mysterious and often confusing, it is never, ever wrong.

When Queen Tidyri is murdered, the caballiers return for Cemirowl. She is brought unwillingly into the palace and into a web of intrigue and lies, where King Larthor rages in his grief. He demands that Cemirowl now use her gifts to find the one who killed his beloved wife.

Cemirowl must draw on all her abilities – her powers, no matter how unreliable; her intuition for reading people; her knowledge; and her wits – to discover the murderer, lay the spirits of the dead to rest, and help the living to grieve and find peace. And, perhaps, she will finally find a place where she belongs.

THE BONE READER is a fantastical murder mystery set in the rich world of Ihyel, where the hard-won peace between two kingdoms rests on the shoulders of one determined, compassionate priestess.

To purchase and for more information: https://books2read.com/u/4DBxag

From Darkness Comes Peace…

Raised in the caves of his father’s people–the brutal and warlike Oni–a half-breed boy knows only a world of darkness and pain. Life here offers one cruel lesson: fight or die.

But he dreams of a world of light and beauty, the world of his human mother, an Oni slave. His only solace, she implores him not to give in to the hate and evil of the Oni, to reject their Dark God, Grund. “Be at peace,” she advises, and from this, he gleans both hope and a name.

As his mother wished, Peace escapes the caves, but he encounters a world of humans that he doesn’t understand. A token from his mother earns him a place at the Sky Temple of Eos the Maker, where his mother trained in her youth. Here, he, too, can become a warrior for the Gods of Light. Struggling against his upbringing, he earns a home, a family.

But the Dark Gods have dark plans, and they have planted their seeds within the promising young disciples of the Sky Temples. To thwart them, Peace must return to the Oni, submit to the machinations of a centuries-old creature, and offer himself to Grund.

To save his world and those he loves, he must sacrifice his soul.

To purchase and for more information: https://www.amazon.com/Man-Peace-Seeds-Darkness-Trilogy/dp/1939837375

Magical children, American legends, and the nation's first lady detective come together in this thrilling fantasy for fans of The Wild, Wild West and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

Kate Warne shattered the glass ceiling and helped save a President as the first female Pinkerton detective. Now she's learning a new role in life - ghost detective. Coming back from beyond the Veil to continue her work, Kate and her partner Shadow are tasked with finding a missing girl somehow linked to the famous Wizard of Menlo Park, Thomas Edison.

But all is not as it seems with the strange inventor, and Kate begins to suspect that his strange assistant may be much more than he appears to be. What she learns is that Edison, the girl, and all her strange siblings are involved in something much deeper and far darker than she ever imagined.

Now Kate and Shadow must join forces with a traveling snake-oil salesman, a semi-retired combat airship pilot, Edison's most famous rival, and a legendary river boat captain and itinerant scribbler of tales to keep Edison and his mysterious cohort from calling forth an ancient power and possibly the end of life as we know it.

To purchase or for more information: https://www.amazon.com/Children-Menlo-Park-Jessica-Nettles/dp/1645541215

Are you ready for an island adventure? An old enemy stalks Abraham Snow through the streets of Hawaii. Get ready for vengeance in paradise in author Bobby Nash's SNOW ISLAND, the 8th book in the award-winning Snow series from BEN Books. Get ready for a #SnowDay at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FVSX9WZX

Written by Author Bobby Nash.

Cover by Plasmafire Graphics’ Jeffrey Hayes.

Edited by Michael Gordon.

Published by BEN Books.

Audio narrated by Stuart Gauffi. Coming soon.

Read it free with Kindle Unlimited. .

Learn more about Snow at www.abrahamsnow.com

Check out Snow’s complete adventures at www.amazon.com/dp/B07G3K7S46

Teel James Glenn’s mystery horror mash-up Not Born of Woman is a fresh, approachable, and engaging take on what a sequel to Mary Shelley’s classic 1818 novel Frankenstein could be. Smart, self-educated, caring and mystified by humanity, the creature, now self-named as Adam Paradise, has spent several decades in Arctic isolation living on an ice-bound ship filled with an impressively stocked library and gold treasure, is back among alleged civilization, namely 1930’s New York City, attempting to understand humanity and his place in the world by using his size, power, sophisticated mind, and an impressively empathetic heart to help those in need. The result is an addictive read that mixes classic mystery, private eye, and horror tropes with a wealth of philosophical and literary references, a rich cast of fully formed New Yorkers that includes cops, gangsters, store owners, a trans neighbor, gypsies, and Nazis. 

To create a quick read that builds on a classic, is fueled by essential thoughts, is paced like a thriller, and offers a way to love a long beloved character in a new way is an impressive accomplishment indeed. Teel James Glenn delivers all this as a page-turner of a ripping fun read.

Most highly recommended. -- Chris Ryan

To purchase and for more information: https://www.amazon.com/Walking-Shadow-Paradise-Investigations/dp/163789337X/ref

A demon’s plot.

A deadly assassin.

Four unlikely allies against the forces of Hell.

Amid relentless monsters, fey alliances, and explosive magical battles, Jake Foster—a man tormented by his past and his own powers—must choose between surrendering to chaos or leading a desperate quest to reclaim his soul.

With the help of a Homeland Security agent, a professor of magic, and a scared half-demon kid, will Jake conquer the darkness, or be devoured by it?

Demon's Call is the pulse-pounding debut of The Nevermore Casefiles, a series set in a world where the veil between the mundane and the monstrous is alarmingly thin.

To purchase and for more information: https://books2read.com/nevermore1lrs

Farahnaz Rahnema has spent her life in the shadows of Emari’s grand Citadel, serving the powerful queen, theMashyana, as her most loyal Hand. With the Talent of metallurgy, Farah can bend and control metal, making her a skilled thief and assassin, tasked with retrieving ancient relics of unimaginable power for the queen. She believes in the queen’s vision for a restored kingdom, one relic at a time. When a mysterious girl named Pari, the Voice of the gods, insists that Farah must join forces with Yasher—a charming, reckless card shark who thrives on luck—Farah’s world starts to unravel.

Yasher has always relied on his quick wits and strange luck to survive, avoiding deep ties to anyone or anything. But when he crosses paths with Farah, he’s thrust into a perilous mission to recover relics that could reshape Emari’s future.  As they navigate a kingdom filled with hidden truths, ancient secrets, and ever-shifting alliances, Farah begins to question the queen she serves and the kingdom’s growing corruption.

With her loyalty tested and Yasher’s own hidden motives in play, Farah must decide: is Mashyana truly Emari’s savior, or is something darker at play? In The Hand of Mashyana, power, betrayal, and ancient relics collide, with a kingdom’s fate hanging in the balance.

Perfect for fans of epic fantasy, thrilling heists, and slow-burn romance, The Hand of Mashyana is the first book in the sweeping saga where destiny, power, and loyalty collide.

To purchase and for more information: https://amberhansford.com/books/the-hand-of-mashyana/

Pursued by a warlord atop a dragon, a Viking on a vengeance quest and a half-elf freedom fighter must find the sword of a god to protect their homes and decide the fate of a nation.

To purchase and for more information: 

https://a.co/d/h0C8QOT} and https://hfdaywrites.com/product/a-tale-of-scorched-ash-and-elm/

Dime-Store Detective vol. 1 is on Kickstarter! Published by Source Point Press! This 130 pages covers issues 1-5 in this new graphic novel. Detective Mackinder must uncover the connection

To purchase and for more information: https://t.co/klU83cOpaI

THESE MEN ARE APES... ON FILM!

From the moment they met—it was movies! They’ve reviewed new releases of vintage cinema and television of all subject matter on disc, finding gems and letting you know the skinny on what to avoid. At Apes on Film, their aim is to uncover the best in retro film. As they dig for artifacts, they’ll do their best not to bury their reputations.

What will they find out here? Their destiny.

Welcome to CINEFILMANIA! This book exists to scratch your retro-film-in-high-definition itch.

HORROR • DRAMA • CRIME • SCIENCE FICTION • COMEDY • ACTION • ADVENTURE • ROMANCE — Name your genre, they’ve got opinions on it! Blu-ray, 4K, UK, Anyway, Anywhere, Don’t Care. If it’s film or television from the past on high definition physical media, they’ve watched it, considered it, critiqued it, and reloaded their players for the next one.

Train them! Excite them! Arm them!...Then turn them loose on the movies! Each one of them is a watching machine, slowly circling their prey until CLICK! The Disc is IN! They were four... but they watched movies like they were FOUR HUNDRED! If you only see one movie this year... you need to sit on your couch and watch films more often!

Films with titles like...

GOOD GUYS WEAR BLACK • DRACULA • DRESSED TO KILL • PICNIC AT HANGING ROCK • HARDCORE • MOTHRA • VIVA • THE GIRL ON A MOTORCYCLE • PLANET OF THE VAMPIRES • EYE OF THE DEVIL • THE TAKING OF PELHAM 123 • BABYDOLL • PUMP UP THE VOLUME • THE KILLING • DEATH LAID AN EGG • NEEDFUL THINGS • SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES • MESSIAH OF EVIL • COOL LAKES OF DEATH • TERROR CIRCUS • THE QUESTOR TAPES • ONE FALSE MOVE • SLEEPWALKERS • THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI • MADAME CLAUDE • MISTER ROBERTS • SCREAM, PRETTY PEGGY • THE VICTIM • MALLRATS • SAMSON AND THE 7 MIRACLES OF THE WORLD • MILLION DOLLAR MERMAID • FEAR IS THE KEY • WEIRD SCIENCE • RED SUN • THE UFO INCIDENT • NIGHT GALLERY • 52 PICK-UP • THE SUNDAY WOMAN • FLYING LEATHERNECKS • AFTER HOURS • HUGO

...AND SO MANY MORE! Pick a favorite, pop it in, and sit back and enjoy along with the APES ON FILM!

FEATURING A FOREWORD BY ACADEMY AWARD™ WINNER CHRIS WALAS (THE FLY, GREMLINS, ENEMY MINE)

Apes On Film is the popular syndicated, online retro film on high definition media review column created by Anthony Taylor, featuring work by Lucas Hardwick, Chris Herzog, and John Michlig.

To purchase and for more information: https://www.amazon.com/Cinefilmania-Adventures-Retro-Hi-Def-Forbidden/dp/B0FTVSQ9Q7