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

Fiction Like White Elephants: Subtext in Your Stories

Let's talk about subtext, you know, that stuff that's hidden subtly in your stories even though it never really leaves a footprint.

Dialog. How important is the stuff your characters don't say or avoid saying to each other in your work?

Terrance Layhew: Creating subtext in conversation is necessary. It immediately gives an inner world to the characters and a larger world at play. What people avoid saying directly or indirectly raises stakes, but done too much makes the story a melodrama.

Elizabeth Donald: If my characters are as close to living, breathing humans as I can make them, the things they don’t say are wildly important - just as they are for us allegedly-real people. When a married couple sits at the dinner table and says nothing but “pass the salt,” that tells us a great deal about their relationship, their thoughts and feelings, the comfort level they have reached (or not) between them. There are many times when we feel spurred to speak and do not, either for fear of social or professional consequences, adherence to behavior norms in society, or our own personal tendencies; a person who is generally conflict-avoidant may remain silent when insulted, even as they are burning to speak - or shout - on the inside. All of these should come to play in our characters, if we are to make them real. The worst thing you can do is an “As you know, Bob…” where a character explains the blatantly obvious to a person who already knows this information. A little subtlety goes a long way.

Sheela Leyh: From my own experiences, the subtext and context both matter. What is said is often just as important as what isn't said. It can and does affect your readers, as well as how your communication is received and does affect meaning.

It is important in mine as I hear dialog early in the writing process, even before the plot unfolds fully. What isn't said is often left for the reader to piece together as part of my thisness layer, as well as to help hold the reader's interest. For context, thisness is an older writing technique that helps make a place more real to a reader without jarring the reader out of the reading experience. The Oxford Writer channel on YouTube does one of the best explanations on the thisness concept that I've seen so far. By trusting the reader to fill in some gaps by leaving out only what needs to be left out, it helps build that relationship with the readers.

Jessica Nettles: Dialog: Silence is a lot like white space on a page. It gives room for the reader to breathe and feel and think thoughts about what ought to happen. With dialog it also give space for things to grow between characters. Kate and Shadow have a LOT of unspoken stuff between them. For instance, neither of them have to say, “I respect you.” They say it in the way they work. There are readers who have picked up something more between them—and maybe it’s there. Shadow certainly won’t say what he feels about Kate, mostly because he isn’t sure what to do with that feeling. He files it under respect, but he would defend her until he faded away. She sees him as her equal, which is once again, never spoken.

Spooky Stories That Affected You

For our Halloween week writer roundtable, tell us the spookiest or creepiest book or story you've ever read and why it affected you. 

Amelia Sides: Children of Men. *Waves vaguely at our current state of affairs*

Danielle Procter Piper: It's a very short story... I wish I could recall the title or author, but it's published in a book I read long ago. Two medical students are still cleaning up their workspace after class has ended and begin a conversation about how cadavers sometimes move due to a buildup of gases in their decomposing bodies. They've even been known to sit up or fall off tables! As they finish up, they wheel their cadaver down the hall to the elevator to return to the morgue...and a power failure leaves them stuck between floors in total darkness. That's it. I think the story might be three pages long? So, anything frightening that could happen in real life scares me, while fantasy horror is just for fun. This, Misery scares me more than any other Stephen King story. It could happen. It's the difference between the news and a nightmare you had.

Seth Tucker: Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House and Matheson’s Hell House spooked me. Despite being two very different styles of haunted house stories, Jackson got to me because of the unreliable narrator, which leaves every event in question, while Matheson made you believe in a malevolent cadre of specters enjoying the torment they filed out, and then that reveal at the end. Both of them build atmosphere equally though, which I don’t see as much in more modern ghost stories.

Discovering Yourself In and Through Your Writing

Just one question for this next writer roundtable.

Flannery O'Connor wrote, “I write to discover what I know" and “I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.”

How has being a writer and telling stories helped you discover who you are and what you know?

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: Very interesting question. For me, some of my stories have helped me to touch on emotions that I didn't realize I had inside. Very much poking a blister and letting some stuff ooze out. I have also enjoyed creating characters who have the bravery I wish I had. That's also very insightful.

Jessica Nettles: Being a writer as a kid helped me embrace my differences from the other kids at school. It gave me a space where it didn’t matter that I was the youngest or the smallest or weird. It was the first thing I felt confident was mine.

As an adult, it helped me rediscover myself after a really shitty marriage in my twenties. I found this spooky girl in the middle of the debris who needed to explore the darkness, my darkness. I learned my dark parts were okay and just as important as being good. I love that spooky, magic-loving girl. I learned that I have a voice that people actually enjoy (still shocked by this) and that I’m funny. Mostly, I learned that writing is who I am. I do many things, but at my core, I am my words. That’s my magic.

Lainey Kennedy: Writing has helped me explore the human conditions by creating characters that are both over the top but rooted in little bits of everyone I know. The adventures are the escapism, but the characters are what I know.

Fay Shlanda: My writing has helped me a lot as a person. I write poetry about my relationship with the world around me, which is mostly about mental illness and being broken.

I have discovered that I have much to say on the subject and that overcoming my hardships is something I would not trade in for an easier life. They have shaped me into someone I like and I use my knowledge to help others.

October Santerelli: I wanted to be a writer as soon as I heard it was a job you could have. I was in 7th grade, and I went home that night and told my parents that was what I wanted to do. And after that, writing became a lifeline, a way to express what I couldn't say, feelings I didn't even know I had. Writing helped me understand myself, like holding up a mirror and seeing with fresh eyes.

The Backstory Iceberg

For our new roundtable, let's talk about your characters, specifically their backstory.

How deep do you go into figuring out your MC's backstory? Your lesser characters? How do you determine how far is enough?

Jessica Nettles: It depends on the character and how much I think I need to know. Sometimes that changes as I get to know the character and learn more about them and where they fit in my world.

Sheela Leyh: I used to go very in-depth in the past to get to know everything about my main character. The lesser characters I used to do quite a bit of detail, However, I've stopped doing that as much. It's more of what is needed to move the story along while still giving it life. I noticed that when I stopped going as deep and let the story emerge unhindered that it started taking off easier for me. I let my characters talk to me and then gauge it as it comes up during the writing process.

Elizabeth Mirasol: I'm a pantser, so as I'm writing, my character shows me more of their background and I can build on it. I just start with a brief personality and image in my head and go from there.

Wade Garret: I created DnD character sheets for my MCs and some secondary.

Sean Taylor: Mine vary. I used to go a lot deeper, but the more I wrote, the more I internalized that process and didn't need to address it as a strategic part of my process. I was able to have it take shape as needed as I wrote, leaving on the major character beats as something I needed to spec out before writing.

However, when I create characters that other writers will also tackle, I create a very, very in-depth story bible because I can't afford to leave anything stone unturned (as the cliche goes) or anything to chance.

Jukebox Thrillers! Look for my newest story, "Sugar Walls"!

Coming soon from New Legend! Jukebox Thrillers: Solid Hits of the 80's is a totally awesome anthology of short stories by top talents inspired by top tunes from the 1980's. You may be familiar with the songs and even the videos, but you've never seen them like this! Check out this wickedly epic playlist: 

Jim Beard “One Thing Leads to Another”

Jayme Lynn Blaschke “The Old Man Down the Road"

Sara T. Bond "Don't You (Forget About Me)"

John C. Bruening "Only the Lonely"

Darin M. Bush "Cult of Personality"

Ryan Cadaver & Nicole Ghouled Cadaver "No Easy Way Out"

Christopher Collins "Electric Avenue"

A.R. Cook "Danger Zone"

Joe Crowe "Walk Like an Egyptian"

Keith R.A. DeCandido "Road to Nowhere"

Kevin Eldridge "Ride Like the Wind"

Michael Falkner "Stand"

Kelley M. Frank "Automatic"

Nicole Givens Kurtz "Wrapped Around Your Finger"

Michael A. Gordon “Centerfold”

Justin Gray “Valley Girl”

Darrell Z. Grizzle “Time After Time”

Joe Heath “Ghost Town”

Robert Jeffrey II "If This World Were Mine"

Bernadette Johnson “Every Breath You Take”

Dan Jolley “Somebody’s Watching Me”

Darin Kennedy “Only Time Will Tell”

Mike Lyons “Money for Nothing”

Violette L. Meier “Nasty Girl”

Adam Messer “Hungry Like the Wolf”

J.R. Mounts “Round and Round”

Bobby Nash “Running Down a Dream”

Jessica Nettles “Major Tom (Coming Home)”

Kelly Oechslin “Jessie’s Girl”

Mary Ogle “I Ran (So Far Away)”

James Palmer “99 Red Balloons”

Ashley Marie Pauls “Holding Out for a Hero”

Alan J. Porter “Two Tribes”

Sarah J. Sover “Careless Whisper”

Sean Taylor “Sugar Walls”

Vincent EM Thorn “The Number of the Beast”

Kelly Young-Silverman “In the Air Tonight”

Ricky Zero “Where the Streets Have No Name”

and more!!!

Jukebox Thrillers is scheduled to be released in November 2025. More details coming soon!

In the meantime, enjoy this music video playlist.

The Influence of Folklore on Genre Fiction

I did a panel with several wonderful, super-intelligent folks at Multiverse Con. It was so inspiring that I wanted to bring the topic over to the blog and open it up to our writing community at large. 

The panel was on folk magic/folk horror, (as evidenced by films such as Midsommar, The Village, The VVitch, etc.) but I think it applies to general genre fiction throughout as well. So, that's where we're going. 

Ready?

Folk magic and folklore began with the common people (folks), or as author Jessica Nettles put it on the panel, "As long as there are people, there is folklore." With so much emphasis in fiction having been spent on the rich or leisurely class, how has this notion of the commonplace protagonist influenced your writing?

Danielle Procter Piper: I shall admit a wealthy protagonist is not often necessary, but written as such for convenience sake. So many stories involve characters doing things while not at a regular job, that it's easiest to explain it away by making them wealthy/important enough to be free for whatever adventure the story calls for. That said, I love the new wave of stories I'm seeing where characters do have fairly regular Joe lives and there are consequences for vanishing to save the world or what have you when school or work is imperative. 

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: The first thing that comes to mind is Alan Moore and John Constantine. He said he wanted to make a magic user that was from the streets and not some lofty white tower. I’ve always loved that.

As for my work, the best examples of folk magic are in my Jake Istenhegyi stories. Jake, the protag, doesn’t use it as much as he gets used by it. The stories are set in 1930’s New Orleans so, of course, vodun, is the first thing to play with but I was able to dip my pen into Golems and Alchemy. While doing research into some of the folk tales of the swamp, I came across the Boodaddy and I used it albeit I did take some creative license with the creature.

A story I am working on currently, Crown of Feathers, is about a boy on the brink of losing his mother but, against the advice of the granny witches that live on the hill, he finds a way to snatch her from the claws of death. Although it doesn’t work out the way he plans. I’ve been doing a lot of research into Appalachian death culture and hedgewitchery.

So, yeah. Long story short, folk magic always somehow influences me.

Jessica Nettles: I feel like my characters are commonplace almost always, probably because I see myself as pretty commonplace. In that space of the commonplace there is the folklore. As a Southern woman, folklore is part of my infrastructure. We are taught it from the time we can hear stories and learn what's important. This feeling of being commonplace and being "not the lady or the Southern Belle" has made me aware of the people who farm the land and are the plain folk. I was raised not only around women like my granny, who taught me how to pick peas and read, but also around my daddy, who took me fishing, taught me to fix old furniture, and to also watch where I put my hands and feet in the woods. My characters often are those sorts of people instead of the well-off. I know those people best.

Kay Iscah: Far more of us are common people than wealthy. We may enjoy the fantasy of wealth, but we’re more likely to relate to people who remind us of ourselves or at least the challenges we face. However, I think there’s a distinctly rural aspect to the term folklore that implies a degree of isolation and being on the edge of nature. Particularly if you’re urban or suburban, visiting rural relatives takes on a magical aspect because you’re so much closer to the edge where you can step out of one world and into another.

In the two Before the Fairytale coming-of-age stories that I’ve written, early on the characters from humble backgrounds pass through the same forest as a significant passage in their journey, though they’re headed in different directions. The back and forth between the safety of civilization and the mystery and danger of the wilds is something believed at the heart of much folklore.

Sean Taylor: I've always preferred the common folk when I write. Even when I write Pulp stories, whose stable of heroes come from the richest and most leisurely people, I tend to want to surround them with the common folk. When I create my own, such as with Rick Ruby, it was important not to make him independent and wealthy, which is typical of a Hammett and Chandler hero, but also to put him in a culture not his own, a white guy in a black world, where every one of his preconceptions is challenged. 

I don't tend to use a lot of magic or spiritual power unless I'm specifically writing fantasy, but I love the notion of the "dark" being looming and mysterious and dangerous, and I picked that up from reading both Gothic lit and fairy tales. 

Lots of folklore comes from people who have been "othered" by those in power, for example, by race, poverty, or gender. Folklore-inspired tales give power back to those people (often for vengeance in horror, for instance). How do you use othering and the empowerment of the "other" in your work?

Danielle Procter Piper: In my sci-fi series, the hero becomes everything he despises and fears...and while many believe he has become a villain... he actually still works for good, but on a much grander scale. In a way, it suggests God doesn't do enough little things because perhaps He's busy with even bigger things...and that's not an excuse to ignore the plight of those who struggle. In my Medieval fantasy series, the hero is about to achieve something uncommon that should be beneficial...but which drives him to push his limits to overcome mockery and protect others similarly mistreated. Eventually, he must give in and become something dreadfully fearful just to save innocent others. In both cases, my heroes must learn to accept and embrace dark things that not only terrify them but completely change them in the eyes of others—even those close to or who love them, sacrificing who they are as they learn how to use these new identities for good no matter the consequences to themselves. 

Kay Iscah: Continuing with the two characters already mentioned. One is an orphan who thinks she’s been abandoned, and the other is an abandoned child who thinks he is orphaned. I’m definitely a fan of clever protagonists, so both work their way up to better positions or at least respectable work with a mix of luck, skill, and determination. But both also make decisions to walk away from situations that might have given them material gain for moral reasons. I had not intentionally set up that parallel, but I see it now. I certainly think there’s a theme of how far you’re willing to go to find acceptance. Are you willing to walk away from power, community, or comfort if it compromises who you are? They both take completely different paths. One walks away from society completely to essentially become the witch in the wilderness, and other works his way up to management and then a royal court position. I don’t think either is wrong or better, but it’s different paths to empowerment. One creates her own space, and the other moves to a position where he might be able to influence larger-scale social change.

Sean Taylor: I love to either set stories in "othered" places, like with Rick Ruby mentioned above or to look for the "other" even in characters who don't immediately seem like an "other." For example, when I wrote Agara, a sort of female Conan for Black Pulp II, I wanted her to be disconnected from everyone else. I wanted to explore someone who exists outside of community but still must live within one. A lot of super hero fiction deals with this as well, I've found. They only pretend to be part of it, but in reality, they have a unique set of problems and issues "normies" can't possibly understand. 

One of my favorite aspects is how the power balance is restored and even tipped to the "other," whether my story has genuine folkloric elements or not. Agara wins, but at the expense of community, which she remains distant from. Rick Ruby's world influences him far more than he influences it. Even in my horror tales, the true power tends to reside in those who are outside the norm. 

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: In the collection of short stories I am working on, Politics of Children and Other Stories of Revenge, I play with this idea in quite a few of them. In, "A Beautiful Thing," a Golem is able to get revenge against the murderer of his protector with the help of some furry friends. In Sweet Revenge, a witch gets revenge against the bank president who finagled the foreclosure of her candy shop.

Magic is a way for the powerless to feel as if they have some kind of say in a game that is rigged against them from day one. I am guilty of that. I have two altars in my office. One is for blessings; I keep it to the right of me, close and under the care of Bridgid. The other is way back in the left side of my office, under the care of Maeve, is where I collect my hex jars. Do I believe that these quaint little jars hold any real power? Is it all just a psychological tool to deal with life with a dose of magical thinking? Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it gives me comfort.

But in fiction, all things are possible. And I can take revenge with absolute impunity.

As for themes, folklore typically includes what DL Wainwright called (on the panel) "strangeness and wonder." In its origins, it often involved the encroachment of the dark and mysterious (often the forest or night) on the so-called normal world of the village or daylight. Does that encroachment of dark upon light weave into your work? Howso?

Danielle Procter Piper: All of my writing deals with heroes encountering and learning to function within the darkness of life. It's just a metaphor for dealing with all that life throws at you and discerning if there's anything good that may be wrought from it.

Jessica Nettles: I don't think the folklore comes from being "othered." The folklore comes from people who have their own primary cultures that are not ours so we don't understand (and in some cases don't want to understand) the importance and power of those stories to "those people over there." In Menlo Park, my witch, Deborah, has been othered because she comes from Romani roots and people fear her witchy powers (she is a VERY powerful witch). Her back story lands her in one of the asylums in New York City because no one knows what else to do with her. Her true power comes in her ability to love and believe in what she knows is true when no one else can. She's not powerful because she's Romani. She's powerful because she loves and is loved by her created family and that grounds her magic. She still believes in her folklore and the magic of her folklore, but in a way, she has created her own branch in her folklore.

Sean Taylor: Now this is a theme I can really get behind. My entire horror short story collection A Crowd in Babylon is based on the fuzzy line that happens where normality and strangeness & wonder meet. One of the stories went back to Indigenous Peoples legends. Another combines folk magic with the quantum mechanics ideas of M-Theory. And one of my favorites goes back to the metaphor of the crossroads and the Blues but removes the crossroads and puts the story in a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. One I'm currently working on involves a couple getting an unbelievable deal on a house... as long as they don't remove the dead squirrel in a jar in the cellar -- a sort of folkloric protection or ward. 

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: The hedgewitches in my Crown of Feathers story are representatives of the Furies: Alecto (mother), Tisiphone (maiden) and Megaera (Crone). Alecto and Meg, the Mother and the Crone) often fight about their responsibilities to help the Protag since he started the whole mess. Meg isn’t one to mess around with. She has no patience and enjoys the taste of a young boy’s flesh.

I like to entangle what might be consider Dark into the Light of my fiction. Mainly because Anger, which is always seen as somehow negative, gets shit done.

But I’ve always been drawn to the antihero.

Jamais Jochim: This is sort of what I'm playing with my Vella book. Folk stories are how we explain the weirdness in our lives while looking at the existence of the awesome and the profane, and how they are sides of the same coin.

Kay Iscah: I think I skipped ahead with my first answer, but yes. The first scene that pops to mind is young Phillip making a nest in a tree, and unable to sleep, he listens to the night noises around him. He’s very aware of his vulnerability and has a similar moment of hyper-awareness when he takes shelter with a tanner in an isolated cabin. There’s another scene where he encounters fireflies for the first time and I think it shows how nature can inspire certain myths about fairies and other creatures of folklore. If I remember correctly both of the bandit attacks that dramatically changed his life happened in daylight in an isolated place. He also encounters actual magic for the first time in daylight, so it’s a bit of flipping the script on his expectations. The girl’s story by contrast is constantly setting up tropes to sidestep them. She is a shapeshifter, the fairy, and a strange old lady who lives alone, so night does not tend to intimidate her to the same degree. She often finds comfort in it; “The stars hummed a lullaby… dreams lack all restrictions. So that night she could be small as a bug or big as a mountain.”

One of my favorite quotes from the panel comes from Dee Norman. "That's how folk magic survives -- through efficacy, not explanation," she explains. How do your magical or belief systems in your work, more commonly fantasy, horror, or some more esoteric sci-fi, line up against this notion of folk magic being more a practice than a doctrine?

Kay Iscah: In the world of Seventh Night where my examples come from, I describe magic in terms of rhythm and song. It’s based on the more scientific idea that everything vibrates, but with the more mystic idea that these vibrations can be harnessed and shifted to produce almost any desired effect. I do think this ties into common magic tropes of saying the right word or humming the right tune. There’s also an element of potion-making, which ties to understanding the potential effects of the ingredients. It’s a blend of science and art.

I do distinguish magic/sorcery and witchcraft as separate practices. The first has more to do with rhythms and is not seen as a spiritual practice by those who practice it. Witchcraft by contrast utilizes spirits, and there’s a stronger taboo against it. Laymen may confuse the two.

Jessica Nettles: Dark and light must always push and pull against one another. In my stories, there is always that element. There is the small town that seems very familiar and the people seem so nice, but there something swimming in the undercurrent you can't see, but can sense. If we're honest, this is more true than not, but most of the time, no one wants to say that out loud. My Eulaila stories explore those small spaces--those towns and areas where things seem off by about two steps, but maybe to the drive-thru tourist, on their way to Panama City, might just guess at. In my Three Sisters stories (y'all ain seen them yet) there is also this same push of darkness and light with the sisters witching their way against various dark elements that seem drawn to their small town for reasons they haven't figured out yet.

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: This reminds me of the dichotomy of Wizards and Witches in Discworld. The Wizards go to a college and spend all their time debating and studying the idea of magic. Witches just WITCH and get shit done.

I tend to waver between ritual and natural magic practices in my fiction.

In my story, "What the Cat Dragged In," the witch in that story is highly ritualistic. Her hex jars are meticulously prepared. Plus she has jars with Kabbalistic sigils on her shelf. Not something a hodge podge hedgewitch would have sitting around.

In the story, "A Beautiful Thing," the Golem has to follow strict rituals as does the John Dee Wanna-Be wizard that it has to fight against.

I prefer the more hodge podge sort of magic that my girls in Crown of Feathers deal out but that’s probably more due to my ADHD than anything else. I don’t have the attention span for ritual.

Danielle Procter Piper: My Medieval fantasy is watching "magic" struggle to thrive in a world where religion and reason fight to suppress both the average person from obtaining what they need on their own and to drive away magical beings and creatures that prove there's another way of getting what you desire that does not rely on obeisance to others. In order to control the masses, you must strip them of their ability to get what they need on their own and convince them that what you say and do is the only way to accomplish things. You introduce government, capitalism, and religion to provide for yourself and those you deem worthy on the backs of innocent others you break with rules that only work so long as you keep throwing them crumbs. The self-empowered person is considered radical and potentially dangerous for what if he or she showed people there's another way? You lose everything you worked so hard to build by letting the commoners know they had the ability to provide for themselves all along—they just needed the knowledge you've worked so hard to convince them was unsafe poppycock.

Sean Taylor: I avoid doctrine in my work as much as possible. I love the idea of loosey-goosey belief systems because, honestly, that's what even most of our entrenched religions were before they were voted on and codified and made safe at the state level (Constantine). And it's so much fun to play in that area where "good Christian people" will argue about a dead squirrel ward in a house for protection or a suburban family will continue to wait up on the night of a new birth in the family for the spirit of an ancestor to show up for a blessing (that's another currently in progress). It's also fun to see ardent atheists encounter something supernatural that sends their world into a spin even if it doesn't trigger any kind of faith. Just the tailspin of supernatural stuff is enough for a good story, especially if it comes from a place intrinsic to their family's past that they thought they were so far beyond having to deal with as modern people in a real, scientific world. 

Jessica Nettles: Deborah would agree with Dee. Magic is practice. It's everyday living for her. It's in her music when she plays her cimbalom between shows, or when she sings as she makes tea. She sees it in the way Thomas, her husband, smiles and his eyes light up when she teases him about the way he likes too much sugar in his tea. It's the way she and her son Seth connect over his dreams. Sometimes it just the way a meal comes together at the end of a very long day. Magic has to be practical in nature and connect to something that applies to life. Doctrine doesn't do that. Those are just rules. Practical magic is a daily, living thing.

What are stories, novels, short stories, or graphic novels, that best highlight the ideas of folkloric influence that you would recommend to others who want to learn how to include such themes in their work?

Danielle Procter Piper: Fairy tales, the ones most of us heard as children, are the best springboard for jumping into folklore as many of these stories are centuries old...but please don't write another variation on any of them. I've read dozens and dozens of variations of Snow White and Cinderella and the lot and most are drivel with very few introducing anything new. It's much cooler if you forge your own fantasy world.

Nikki Nelson-Hicks: Check out the Witches and Wizards in the Discworld series. My favorites are: Lords and Ladies, Witches Abroad, and Carpe Jugulum. For Wizards: Interesting Times and The Colour of Magic.

Graphic Novels: Hellblazer and Promethea or anything done by Alan Moore. He’s a maniac and an actual wizard. Very interesting ideas on magic.

Jessica Nettles: Start with the basics: Read your mythos. Which ones? All of them? As many as you can learn about. I started reading Greek mythology when I was very young (I look back and realize that it was probably too young). Then I learned about other mythos and read them too. Why do that? Because this gives a better understanding about what people believe and why some magic works certain ways. Read good books with strong magic systems, like Wheel of Time (okay, I'm not a huge fan, but the magic system is pretty consistent), Jonathan Strange and Mr. Morrell, the Sandman (yes, Gaiman has issues, but his magic systems are spectacular and his writing is worth studying), read Dr. Strange and some of the other Marvel titles that deal with cosmic magic (once again, somethings are problematic, but also there are a lot of really cool things that happen in this magic system that are worth studying, plus they play around a lot with mythos and their takes on folklore). Also read things from people who don't look like you. It's really easy to fall into reading information filtered through those who are part of your culture. When you do that, you miss all the nuances of the culture you are learning about. It's one thing to learn about Anasi from a very Western point of view than it is to learn about Anasi from the African or even West Indies point of view. Same with magic. If you are going to learn about magic of certain cultures--talk to the folk who practice it or find books by the folk who practice it. I recommend reading folks like Nicole Givens Kurtz, Milton Davis, Geneve Flynn, L. Marie Wood. You will get schooled.

Sean Taylor: I think there have been some amazing comic books and graphic novels exploring folkloric themes. The Writer from Dark Horse looks into Jewish folklore and mysteries. Harrow County is hands-down my favorite take on mountain haints and spellcraft. Obviously lots are drawn from folklore in The Sandman, even if Gaiman himself is a bit tarnished. Image Comic's I Hate This Place begins as a sort of homage to folk horror before sliding off into Lovecraftian themes. 

As for books, no one does this better than Angela Carter in The Bloody Chamber or Shirley Jackson in "The Lottery." 

Kay Iscah: Definitely Brothers Grimm Folklore and Fairytale collection for my work as I borrow elements of the folklore style, particularly in The Girl With No Name. But I think it’s good to read broadly. I lost my African folklore collection in a housefire, so can’t give you the title, but it’s a big influence on one of my works in progress. I make a reference to Bringing the Rain to Kapiti Plain, which is a retelling of Nandi folklore. In Seventh Night there’s also a nod to Legend of Zelda.

A lot of folklore is retelling of older myths with a local flavor thrown in, which may be hard to recognize if you don't know the older myths. Reading The Mabinogion before rereading Brothers Grimm helped me start connecting several of the Grimm stories to older myths, Celtic, Greek, and Bible stories. I think the more you dig into mythology, the more you see the patterns as stories are told and retold.

Bonus Post: The Indie Bookstore Day/Crazy Book Lady Photo Wrap-Up

Had a blast hanging out with folks fellow writer-folks like Bobby Nash, Jessica Nettles, and Juliet Rose this past Saturday. It was also nice meeting Stacy Olsen (THE Crazy Book Lady herself) in the flesh! 

Here's the proof!

Me and Bobby McG... well, Nash

The Neighbors

The Calm Before the Storm

Thanks again, all for making it such a fun event and special thanks to The Crazy Book Lady for hosting the excitement!