Site Title

Festive Flash Fiction Advent Day 13: Montreal Manger

Multicultural, seasonal, bilingual wordplay. If I screwed it up, je suis désolé…!

Montreal Manger

“Meet us for a walk,” Marlene said, one December night after too long at work. “The weather’s been miserable and it feels marvelous to move.”

Mo leant me his mittens as we marched up the street. Above us, the moon shone, crisp and cold. Midway up the mountain, a church bell began to chime.

“Midnight Mass,” said Marlene, moving her scarf up over her mouth. “I should be there.”

“Why aren’t you?” I asked.

“Moi?” she replied, wistfully. “Lapsed Catholic. Mostly I miss the music.”

“Merry Christmas anyway,” said Mo, his beard frosted already.

“Thanks,” she said, her voice muffled. “Though I’m pretty sure Muslims don’t celebrate the birth of Jesus.”

“You’d be right about that,” he replied. “We don’t generally celebrate the births of any of the prophets, Jesus — may Allah exalt his mention — included. But nothing to stop me wishing you the best, right?”

“D’accord. Merci.”

Both sets of eyes turned to me. “You’re an atheist, yes?” Marlene asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe. Yeah, I guess so.”

“What do you believe in, then?”

I looked up at the moon-lit sky, stars shining even through the city lights. I considered mentioning moth-eaten mythology or mortal metamorphosis, or even the immeasurable immensity of time immemorial.

“I believe,” I began…

My stomach rumbled.

“…in smoked meat. With mustard and a maple marinade. And maybe a mince pie for afterward. My place?”

Mo grinned at me. “Most definitely.”

“Mais oui,” said Marlene. “Magnifique.”

My kind of manger — Montreal-style.

***

For the month of December, my goal is to post a piece of festive flash fiction here to the blog every day. Twenty-five stories, each 250 words or fewer — a little fictional festivity to brighten the darkest month of the year. For readers, I offer these stories as a moment of peace within a hectic month of busy. And writers? If you’d like to join me, I’ll feature any flash fiction you’d like to share!

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 12: A West Coast Love Story

I hope you’re impressed that I made it 12 WHOLE days before falling prey to the lure of doggerel!

A West Coast Love Story

He is red and she is green
Shining through the rain-slicked sheen
Beaming through the fog marine
Christmas lights in love

Led and Leda are their names
Glimmering in Westcoast rain
Reflecting in the window panes
Christmas lights in love

Led is smitten by her glow
Guaranteed to ten below
Tho’ she’s never felt the snow
Christmas lights in love

‘Leda you are quite a sight,
Glitt’ring green through day and night,
Luminescent spinach bright!’
Christmas lights in love

‘Led you are so very fine,
Smouldering upon your line,
Red like home-made cherry wine.’
Christmas lights in love

True that they shall never see
A flake of snow upon the tree… but
They light downpours brilliantly
Christmas lights in love

’til that January day
When they will be put away
Gleaming in the rain they’ll stay
Christmas lights in love

And…

When next year the sun doth flee
Dug out from the shed, you’ll see
He and she will once more be
Christmas lights in love

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 11: Krampus Kringle

Krampus Kringle

from a creative commons photo by Horst A. Kandutsch — *Krampus Kringle*

How may I help you, sir?

Applying for the mall Kris Kringle position? Of course. Let me just get the application. Ow! There’s no need to hit me with that switch, sir. I’ll be happy to fill it out for you.

We prefer ink, sir, on our applications. Blood gets so — sticky.

May I ask why you are keen on the position?

Fondness for children is a definite asset, sir. Pardon me… did you say tastiness?
Ah, tasteful. Of course.

Any relevant skills or experience?
I’m afraid kidnapping is not — oh, I see, helping kids nap. Quite a different concept, sir. Let’s just move on, shall we?

Please list your greatest assets. You know — kindness or courtesy or…
You’re a good — kicker? I’m sorry, sir, I fail to see…
Ah. Kisser. Even so, sir — kissing is — well, it’s frowned on in a Kris Kringle these days. And please put your tongue away. Thank you.

I’ve a few further concerns sir, about your appearance. Your natural beard is quite appropriate for the position, but the cloven hooves may be a problem. And the antlers.
Under the hat? That’s certainly a possibility, sir.

Hours available? Yes, we offer several breaks over the day, but snacking on the job is discouraged. I’m sorry — did you say snacking ON the kids?
Oh with the kids. Still not kosher, I’m afraid, sir.

That’s all the questions for today. So kind of you to apply. No need to kneel, sir; I quite understand how keen you are.

We’ll keep in touch!

***

After I wrote this Festive Flash today, a friend showed me the most delightfully naughty coming-of-age novel about Krampus, self-pubbed on Kickstarter. Not sure if there are more digital copies available, but if you’d like to contact the creator, you can find it HERE.

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 10: This Just…in

Okay, it’s possible I may have gone a wee bit political on this one… Canadian politics, eh? It’s a snowy business.

This Just…In

The elves were in a jam. Santa’s reign as head elf had been long, and he’d become a jerk. He fought hard to keep the top job, jousting and jeering jealously. Slowly, any justice leached away, leaving a jelly-bellied Jabba running the show.

In the workshop, production values were a joke. Junior elves were denied their hats and personal jewellery. Workshop elves making science kits were junked and told not to jabber about it. Elves drawing picture books and creating toys felt joyless. The right side of the workshop jettisoned toy-making altogether. They clearcut all the trees, and shipped them off to outsource cheaper labour.

Worldwide, people began to look at Santa’s workshop differently. Jibes came in so thick and fast, jaded letter elves started burying mail in the snow. This worked, at least until the snow started to melt.

Unseasonably.

After years of jumbled disorganization, a junior elf in a workshop to the left began to speak out. It’s time, he said, to shake up the status quo. We need to jolt this elf off the shelf.

The son of a former Santa himself, the elves on the right jeered at his joie de vivre. But he jested and jollied everyone so much, they joined together and somehow successfully sent sad Santa on his sunny way.
Shouts of jubilation echoed around the world as the elves jump-started the joy back into the North Pole.

And on the workshop door, a notice went up:

This Just…in.

There’s a jazzy new elf in town.

The North Pole is back!

Joyeux Noel!

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 9: Inferno and Ice

What if Nazareth wasn’t the first choice…?

Inferno and Ice

The setting was all wrong.

He’d expected sand and sun and the warmth of understanding and appreciation. Instead — darkness. Darkness, and isolation. Not the velvet darkness of a quiet room. Not the darkness of sweet dreams. This inky darkness, and the not-incidental icy cold, left him questioning his insouciant ideas.

NOT the ideal he’d imagined. How could he invoke such ill-fortune on an innocent? But imprudent or not, there was no help for it. Hood pulled low, he put incaution aside and set out into the land of inferno and ice.

His feet made no sound, sinking lightly into the moss with every step. He walked on, surer now, the tiny burden clutched tightly under his cloak. Icy fog swirled.

The journey was not long, and a low shape soon rose up. No important institution in this setting, of course, but it would do. Immediately, the darkness around him hummed with infinite promise. An icicle dripped like the sound of a beating heart.

His indecision slipping away, he stepped inside and the thermal incalescence rose up to envelop him. Stooping, he nestled his burden into an impeccable stone trough and inwardly decided that sun and sand were over-rated. In a moment of inspiration, he cast an incandescent star as an indicator, and left the infant under the interested eye of an Icelandic pony.

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 8: Hannah Can’t Handle It

Hoo boy. Well, this started out as a little musing on the discomfort of holiday social interaction, but it clearly took a left turn somewhere inside my subconscious. NO aspersions intended, of course. Holiday humour, eh?

Hannah Can’t Handle It

The room sign said “How To Handle It”, so Hannah slunk inside.

Her humiliation was tempered only a little by the number of other people sitting in the room. They all looked as humbled as she felt.

Her sin?
Hannah hated hugging.
Abhorred it.

Honestly? It was only holiday hugging she hated. She was perfectly happy hugging her husband. And she hugged her horse every day. But hugging acquaintances and colleagues? Ugh. This December at work, things had gotten so bad her boss had signed her up to learn ‘how to handle it’.

She’d rather handle a hot iron.

“Tell us your name and what you need our help with,” said the group leader.

A young man stood up. “Lance,” he said. “I need help with s-s-spiders.”

“Felicity,” said the next woman. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Name’s Cameron, and my problem is fear of flying.”

It carried on round the circle. Beside Hannah, the last woman stood up.

“I’m Jo,” she said. “And I’ve an unhealthy hankering for the letter H.” She smiled hesitantly. “First it was Harry. Then Hagrid, and of course Hedwig and Hermione, and then Hogwarts, and well, hahahahaha…”
Her laughter held a hint of hysteria.

The group leader patted her arm. “Perhaps we can help for the next book,” she whispered, and looked over at Hannah.

“I’m Hannah,” she began, “and I hate…” but before she could finish, Jo hooted happily and wrapped her in a huge hug.

And all Hannah could do was howl.

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 7: The Giving of Gifts

ARGH! I made it only seven days before I’ve broke my own length parameter. This story is 50 words too long, but since this kind of grammatical quarrel is a hill I have died on many a time, I somehow couldn’t manage to cut it any further…

The Giving of Gifts

May I help the next guest?

Uh — yes. I’m looking for the perfect present.

Delightful. May I ask to whom you plan to gift it, madam?

I… sorry, I’m actually looking for a present. For my girlfriend.

Exactly. Well, this is extremely tasty gingerbread, madam. I’m sure your girlfriend will be thrilled to be gifted such a delicious item.

What the hell? Gifted?

I’m sorry, madam. You don’t like gingerbread?

That’s not it at all. It’s just — you keep saying ‘gifting’. It’s giving. I’ll be giving her the gingerbread as a present.

Whatever you say madam.

I mean, it’s not a word. Gifted. Gift is a noun. The verb form is gave.

I fear you are wrong, madam. I myself have gifted on many occasions.

Okay, okay — I am wrong. Gifted is a word. But only in adjectival usage. Gifted at math. Gifted at piano.

We no longer sell pianos, madam.

That’s not my point!

And your point is, madam?

The point is, I refuse to gift anyone anything.

It’s been a pleasure serving you, madam.

No — no, don’t leave. My girlfriend loves gingerbread.

As much as she loves English-usage pedants?

Um— pardon?

The beauty of English is its versatility, madam. Parts of speech are a slippery slope.

I just want to buy this gingerbread, okay?

Repeat after me, madam. ‘I plan to gift this gingerbread…’

I— I don’t think I can do it.

How can I help you, sir?

No! No — don’t leave me.

I beg your pardon, madam, but I believe this gentleman was next.

<whispers> ‘I plan to gift this gingerbread to my girlfriend…’

One moment, sir. I seem to have forgotten to ring through this lady’s gingerbread. I’ll be with you in just a moment. One cannot stand in the way of such generous gifting, can one?

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 6: Fight or Flight by Jacquie Pearce

Today my wee advent gift to you is a story by my friend, author Jacquie Pearce. Jacquie writes fiction for children and teens, as well as very short poetry and prose for adults. She can often be found wandering Vancouver, collecting photos and story ideas. You can find out about all the cool books she has written HERE, and you can follow her on twitter @jacquieink. There will be one more flash of Jacquie’s story-telling brilliance here in this advent collection, so watch for it!

Fight or Flight

The girl perched on the roof peak.

From here, she could look out over the tops of the other houses to the green fields of the park and the wild trees beyond. She’d been coming up here ever since she was big enough to climb out the window of the bedroom she shared with the other foster children. At first it had been a place to get away ─a hiding spot all her own. She’d never been afraid of the height. But now there was something else.

An urgency.

Lifting her face to the cool, night air, she could sense the presence. It was like a tiny curl of smoke on the horizon. Yet, she could see and smell nothing. Still, there it was, teasing the back of her throat and making her want to cough. She felt its menace growing. Whatever it was, it was getting closer.

Something caught the girl’s attention on the edge of the park –a small black movement against the dark sky. A bird perhaps. The girl’s shoulder blades prickled where she imagined her own wings sprouting. She hoped there would be enough time.

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day 5: The Effect of Entropy

Past midnight, but I still haven’t made it to bed yet, so I consider it under the wire! [Also, my level of sleepiness may possibly be reflected in the silliness of this prose…]

The Effect of Entropy

Entropy Tok was an enigma.

Where her father, Erasmus Tok, was effective and expeditious in action, Entropy…?
Was not.

Entropy tried — she really tried, but somehow, wherever she went chaos seemed to follow.

On the evening of the eleventh, Erasmus entreated Entropy to effect an endeavour.

He wanted to eat an egg for dinner.
She had an hour to make it happen.

Now, Erasmus appreciated expediency, though he accepted that Entropy, as a human, might occasionally err. Luckily, when he held Entropy to a high standard, it was an expectation she was inclined to endorse.
Erroneously.

But Entropy was nothing if not an optimist. And so she set out.

It seemed an elementary exercise. A brief expedition to the egg emporium. An eager entrance, an economic transaction and an enthusiastic exit.

Except…
Entropy entered the exit door. [Who among us can say they have not done the same at least once in our lives? Exactly.]

By entering the exit, she emerged at the wrong end of the escalator. Undeterred, and after an excess of exercise, Entropy arrived at the top, only to be met by an enraged employee.

When Entropy explained, however, the employee relented and expedited the sale of the eggs.

In exultation, Entropy returned home, only to ensnare her elbow in the electrical cord of the frying pan. The eggs came to an elegiac end.

My eggs are gone, cried Erasmus, his empathy exhausted.

Not gone, dad, replied his enterprising daughter. Nog!*

The Entropy Effect, enacted.

*Nog, of course, being the reverse of ‘gone’…without the e.

***

More soon…

~kc

Festive Flash Fiction Day Four: The Dreidel

The Dreidel

One December day, an old man named Gimel found a puppy inside a hat on the seat of a city bus. It was after dark, he was on his way home from synagogue, and he didn’t see the hat until it was time to get off. The old man lived near a bus station, so when he got off the driver got off, too. But before he got off, he looked in the hat, which was, as a matter of fact, a top hat; black, and turned upside down under the back seat.

The puppy was curled inside the hat.
As the bus was empty, the old man took the hat home with him.

The old man called the puppy Dreidel, because he spun around before he curled up to sleep. Dreidel slept in that hat for two weeks. Then he grew too big. The old man kept the hat anyway, even though he never wore it. At night, he set it on the dresser, beside his kippah.

After meeting, they were never apart for a single day. The puppy lived to become an old dog and the old man lived to become a very old man.

And now only the hat remains. I’ve seen it, sometimes, in the corner of the bus. Under the seat. At the end of the line.

I think tomorrow I might look inside.

***

More soon…

~kc