Christmas Eve The most dangerous time of the year When trees catch on fire And strangers come knocking And kids run in fear. It's the most dangerous time of the year. Have extinguishers ready All doors locked tight And keep your kids near It's the most dangerous time of the year
And here is a slightly better story:
It was eleven o'clock, only an hour until the twenty-fifth of December, and Rosemary was still sitting up in bed, waiting for Santa Clause to climb down her chimney. Her eyes were ringed with a darkness more suited for Halloween, but the gleam which sprouted from within them was every bit the eagerness and innocence which overtook children during the festive season.
She jumped off her bed when a faint knocking was heard downstairs, almost like her cat was tapping at the door, wanting to escape the cold night and surrender to the warmth of the fire. But Rosemary knew who was really making the sound: Santa Clause.
"Would you do join me for an evening stroll through the sky?" A large man in the familiar red suit asked, upon spotting Rosemary's delighted face peaking out from the hallway. She giggled at his question, recalling a movie her family had watched in the evening, during which the exact same question had been asked.
She thought for a moment of how the woman in the film had replied, and said, "It would be the greatest honour."
Santa Clauses' sleigh was everything Rosemary had imagined. The apple-red paint reflected the billions of stars in the sky, the reindeer's nose being the brightest of all. She sat beside the big man, seated on what felt as soft as a cloud. But the smell was what Rosemary admired most. Being in the night sky, she could smell fresh rain intermingled with the tempting scent of gingerbread coming from the massive sack of toys behind her.
"Oh, Santa Clause!" Rosemary exclaimed, her eyes falling on the sack, where a present was peeking out from under the velvet folds of fabric. It was perfectly square, and no wrinkles were present on the beautiful, gold wrapping paper. But every few seconds, when the reindeers kicked and gave the sleigh a burst of acceleration, the present slipped further from its hold.
"I think it might fall..." She reached out to hold onto the gift, but the sleigh rocked just enough so that it slid out of her reach. Rosemary became overwhelmed with suspense, and found herself climbing out of her cushiony seat and towards the sack, but her actions came too late. The present slipped once more and tumbled off the edge of the sleigh, down, down into the clouds until it was just a speck of golden light... and then nothing.
"Oh!" Rosemary gripped onto the sleigh, but by reaching out for the gift she had knocked herself off balance, and she herself tumbled over the edge. Head over heels she fell, crashing through the clouds and emerging from the mist. She saw below her the roofs of a sleeping neighbourhood, a trail of Christmas lights flickering on and off. Rosemary held out her arms, trying to fly like the birds did, but to no avail. Instead, she marvelled at the feel of snowflakes between her fingers, cold and gentle.
"Oh no!" The realisation of her perilous situation overcame the young girl, and she pulled herself into a ball as the tiled roofs flashed closer with every blink. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable impact.
Rosemary felt nothing though, except an odd warmth that shouldn't be experienced when one is in a snowy sky. But, upon curiously opening her eyes, she discovered that she was actually in bed, wrapped in her woolen blanket. Her lip curled into a grin; though the fear of death had accompanied her, Rosemary was delighted by her dream of flying in Santa's sleigh.
She was about to settle back to sleep, but felt something shift against her leg. She pushed herself onto her elbows, and squinted to see in the dark room. Leaning against Rosemary's leg was a perfectly square Christmas present, wrapped in beautiful, gold paper.
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
The shouts of murderous witch-hunters and roar of the torches they wielded could be heard from miles around. Though it made no difference to Remilda Barry whether the town folk could hear the danger which was at present on her doorstep; they would neither rush to help her or rally new forces for The Hunt.
The Hunt had been the bane of the Barry family for centuries. She remembered fleeing from the eighteenth century in the arms of her parents when hunters had begun ripping down their wooden home. Her grandparents, great-grandparents, and ancestors had all made similar escapes at some point in their lives.
Remilda thought she had been doing quite well raising her three children in safety, keeping their true identity hidden from The Hunt. But earlier in the day her youngest, Alexandra, had accidentally turned a tree upside down; its roots providing shade and its branches sinking deep beneath the earth. It was now clear, with the fear of her own home being burned to ground looming outside the door, that her family would have to make the same escape as all the generations before.
"When will we come back, mummy?" The eldest, Vicki, asked, gripping onto the hands of her sisters.
"When all the present hunters are long dead." Remilda answered. The past was a safe place; no one knew their identites, and their enemies had yet to be born. They could hide out in the past for as many years as they wished, then return to any future they fancied. But, of course, the future was dangerous. Their identities were known in that realm, and the unpredictable nature of the world was enough to frighten Remilda.
One generation, long ago, had lived their whole lives in the past, so that her family tree got quite muddled up in all the dates, and the travellers had to be careful not to run into their ancestors. But Remilda was sure that they would return as soon as her children were calmed down. Eighty years ahead would be long enough to ensure that the hunters, and any information of her family they'd passed down, would be long forgotten.
"Oh, mummy, let's go, now!" Abigail, the middle child, extended her arm and clutched onto Remilda's skirt. Amongst the flames and shouts, banging could now be heard. It appeared that the hunters were now breaking down the door, and would be inside shortly.
"Alright, let us huddle together." They had practised the drill many times, though not put any power into it. To successfully travel into the past, the whole family had to form a tight circle, holding each other as close as possible so that they were one form. Then the group merely thought of their desperate desire to be in the past- though they could never predict which past- and then they were there.
"Will it work without daddy?" Victoria asked, her voice muffled against Remilda's waist.
"Perhaps his body is not here, but he will make us even more powerful, because his presence is in each of us." It pained Remilda to think of her husband, who had died in completely normal circumstances of the flu. Whenever she felt an emptiness, she reassured herself that he was within her, and that gave her a power which would serve handy now.
Ensuring that the group was well wrapped up together, Remilda focussed her thoughts on nothing but her desire to enter the past realm. She ignored the flickering of flames lapping against the wall, she ignored the curses spoken by the hunters as they crashed into the room, she ignored the pain in her heart of losing her love. Though, she couldn't really ignore the latter, no matter how hard she tried.
"Mama, look!" Alexandra had already detached her little hands from her sisters, and was staring in awe at something in the distance.
They were standing in a courtyard, the scene around them illuminated by both the full moon and a candle-lit window. Snow fell softly on their shoulders, Abigail snuggling against her mother for warmth in the cold air. They were in the presence of a mansion, the style of which suggested to Remilda that they'd only travelled a couple of decades into the past.
"There's a tree inside!" Victoria whispered, though it didn't really sound like a whisper. Indeed, through the window sparkled a beautiful evergreen, decorated with colourful glass baubles and popcorn strings.
Remilda strained her ears as the wind carried a faint tune. She could hear the melodies of carols, angelic voices singing the comforting tunes. "My darlings," she stepped towards the mansion, feeling that nothing could harm them on such a night, "I do believe that it's Christmas!"
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
Miracles are rare occurrences in which seemingly impossible things come to be, under the strangest circumstances. Normal people find the belief of such a thing difficult to maintain, but it is even harder for those who have magic. Now, however, the Barry family could not doubt that miracles are real, because one was played out right in front of them.
A window not too far from where they were standing opened, and a little old lady popped her head up, gazing at the underdressed family. "Whatever are you doing outside on such a cold evening? And Christmas Eve of all times!"
"We're terribly sorry to trespass," Remilda held onto her children, silently reminding them that in situations like this they were to keep completely quite, "but we had no where to go, and were looking for some place warm."
It was true that they had no place to go, past, present or future. Their home would surely be burnt to the ground when they returned, or perhaps the ruins would be built over and they'd find themselves looking at a row of townhouses.
"No place to go at Christmas?" The old lady's accent gave away that she was from no posh heritage, yet she spoke with such an authority that Remilda decided the mansion had to be her home. Such families, a mixing of classes, were always jolly and unjudging, so she loosened her grip on her children, smiling when the lady said, "You'll just have to come inside and join us!"
The transition from cold to warm made the three young girls shiver, though nothing shocked them more than the figures sitting around a long, grand table. The old woman, nicely dressed in a red and green gown, showed them to some empty chairs. They were promptly greeted by merry faces all around. But the Barrys found that they couldn't say 'merry Christmas' in return, or even bring a friendly grin to their faces. A way down the table, playing tug-a-war with a Christmas cracker, was a young boy. He was so identical to his future self that even the three girls knew him, though Remilda had to pinch herself under the table.
It was their father!
"Oh, go ahead and play with the other children!" The old lady had spotted them staring, and happily made vacant a chair nearer to their father. Abigail and Alexandra were up on their feet in a second, and Remilda had to strengthen herself and reenter the world, for she had become lost in her heart, to remind her daughters to remember to keep their identity a secret.
"Mummy," Victoria stayed seated beside Remilda, though she was no less excited. "How did we get to daddy? When everyone else went back in time, they met strangers, not..."
Remilda held a napkin to her chest, preparing for the joyful flood of tears which she was sure she'd have a hard time explaining to all these people. "Perhaps his presence made us more powerful than we'd thought."
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
Cracker jokes with never quite do it Ham on the barbeque, being tended to by dads Roasted nuts, but not like in Harry Potter Ice cubes melting in the sweltering sun Secret santa... oh look, I got more chocolate... yay Table tops full of party food and cheap Christmas novelties Mothers showing off rude little daleks Ants climbing up legs, no matter how tight your jeans are Slobbery dogs begging to play ball
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
It's not widely known that Rudolph has a child named Jolly, and the lack of acknowledgement is perhaps what lead Jolly to such drastic actions. But, like all beings experience, the craziest ideas often give the best results.
Rudolph was recounting all his adventures to Jolly when the young reindeer started crying. He asked what was wrong, and Jolly miserably shared her thoughts; she did not want to work for Father Christmas.
Rudolph hadn't considered any other job opportunities for his child, he had been so certain she would follow in his footsteps. However, the red-nosed reindeer was determined to help Jolly find the holiday she truly belonged to, even if it wasn't Christmas.
There was an advertisement in the newspaper, it was getting to the time of year when the Easter Bunny needed to deliver eggs, and he wanted some help. Jolly jumped for joy at the idea of hiding eggs for children to find, so Rudolph signed her up.
Around the North Pole, rumours spread of Jolly's odd departure from tradition. Even the other young reindeer made fun of her, and called her a rabbit. But once Easter came, everyone respected Jolly for being her true self.
She was assisting the Easter Bunny in the dark hours of the morning. Using the street lights to see, they hid the eggs in places which were tricky, but not so tricky that they couldn't be found.
Just when they had entered a new town, a power outage occurred and the whole town was plunged into darkness. The Easter Bunny fell into a fit of despair; if they couldn't hide the eggs, Easter would be ruined and all the children would be devastated!
Jolly mustered up all her strength, and recalled what her father had said about lighting the way for Santa's sleigh. She focussed all her energy on her nose, which promptly lit up like a light-globe.
The Easter Bunny was able to see now, and with Jolly lighting the way, he hid the eggs around the town. Jolly hadn't be afraid to be unique, to be her true self, and thanks to her courage, Easter was saved!
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
I feel really uninspired today so this is going to be short and boring and... based on the story theme generator.
The nurse hated Christmas. All the children sat up in their beds with wide grins on their pale faces, begging a strange man for a hug. These kids were either crazy or dying! They shouldn't be smiling, no sir. So the nurse decided that she would steal Christmas time. It wouldn't be hard, she'd just use the magic which her family possessed to erase Christmas from everyone's mind. They could protest, they could beg her not to, but in the end, they wouldn't even remember what they were upset about. Christmas time wouldn't exist, even Santa... who is Santa? Oh look! December 25, just another working day...
I warned you that would be lame.
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
Day 10: A story which is unrelated to Christmas but too short to be published so I'll just put it here.
Spoiler! :
This is a recount of part of a dream I had last night. Sometimes I have dreams which I enjoy so much that I just have to turn them into actual stories. This one was great because book characters are in it, and those dreams are always amazing.
The beginning of the dream is mentioned in the short, but I didn't write about the end. Basically, the van stops somewhere and we get out and there's zombies everywhere (except they don't look dead, they look like real people) so I just run. I follow a path, and then my mind transitions into a completely separate dream.
The Actual Story:
"Are we safe?" My head was spinning, my voice slurred. I couldn't tell where Gilbert actually was, sometimes he seemed to be sitting beside me, other times I had to turn my head to the back of the van, so I just spoke to whatever was in front of me. "Will they follow us?"
"As long as we keep moving, we're safe." The voice came from behind me, so he must have been sitting with Anne. To be honest, I didn't feel at all safe with him in the same vehicle as me, especially with the state his apparent wife was in. What sort of wight would let zombies knaw on his spouse? Both her hands were gone, one arm was shredded, but the girl seemed perfectly content in the back of the van and didn't love him any less. Maybe she's imagined it all away, apparently Anne's good at that. Me, on the otherhand? All I can think about is my impending doom.
"What's actually going on?" I ask for the seventh hundred time, rubbing my head which still feels like it's being clawed at. Gilbert, now beside me again (the zombies have driven me crazy, I swear) gives the same explanation as before, and it doesn't reassure at all. Wights, zombies. Apparently, once you get bit, you have a couple days to amputate the limb or fall prey to the world-wide thriller fest. You have a 50/50 chance of becomming a wight or a zombie. Gilbert got bit before he knew what it meant; he became a wight. They're meant to help lure people to the zombies, and you can probably guess what they do.
Apparently wights still have free wills, which must be true since he got me out alive, but there's always a nagging sensation at the back of their minds. He lost it once and the result was Anne's hands getting bitten while she tried to push them away.
We were at a church service when a group of zombies were led in (Gilbert swears he had nothing to do with that). I was bashed and bruised, even fell unconscious to the ground, but the two of them somehow carried me out without a bite on my body. Now we're in the van, going who knows where, and I'm meant to believe that I'm safe. But no matter what poetry Anne recites or explanations Gilbert gives, I can't trick myself into believing that, because no one is safe anymore.
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
A whole new meaning. "Excuse me, sir?" The boy watched the butcher dump unsold meat into a garbage bag. "May I have that?" "Well what yer gonna pay for it?" The man sat the half-empty meat platter on the counter, eyeing the boy to see what he could get from him. "I haven't any money," he shuffed in his holey shoes, "but if it was going in the bin anyway..." "This meat is garbage!" The man snapped. "No good to any decent folk." He poured the remaining meat into the bag, then heaved the black sack over the counter. "But I suppose it's a perfect much for the likes of you. Take whatever yer want, then ditch the rest in a fire." "Thank you, sir." The boy did not let the butcher's cruel words have any effect on him. He ran home, the sack slung over his shoulder, and burst into his rickety home. "Happy Christmas, everyone." His family cooked the reject meat and ate it around their little tree. None of them had expected to have a Christmas dinner, and their prayers were full of thanks for the delicious food and the generous butcher who had supplied it. One man's trash is another man's treasure.
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
Albus Potter bounded off the train, running towards his parents who waited on the platform. He met the pair with a big hug, enveloping them in his little arms. Ginny buried her face in the nook between his neck and shoulder, but Harry looked over his back, staring in shock at the young Hogwarts student who stood behind Albus as if he was waiting for the hug to disband.
"Oh, daddy." Albus pulled away and stood beside the boy, putting a comforting arm around his shoulders. "This is Scorpius, and I invited him to stay with us for the first week of the Christmas holidays."
Harry didn't say anything, just continued staring at the Slytherin, so Ginny took that as her cue to intervene. She shook hands with Scorpius, who gave her a sweet little smile, and asked, "Have you parents okayed this?" The question may have come out a little shaky, but she didn't mean it to. Her and Harry just weren't the best of friends with Scorpius' parents, and hated to have to communicate with them.
Scorpius nodded. "Well, they didn't really say yes, or no."
Albus went on to explain, "They sort of just looked at us with their mouths hanging open, then wished Albus an enjoyable stay."
Ginny scratched the back of her head. "Okay them, I suppose it's alright. Harry?" She raised an eyebrow at her husband.
"Umm," he snapped out of whatever was occupying his mind, "yeah, okay. Welcome aboard." He scanned the crowd of students flooding out from the train. "Where's your brother, Albus?"
"Coming." He was helping Rose collect her bags.
Harry saw that they would be stuck waiting in this awkward situation for at least a couple of minutes, so for his son's sake, he tried to make conversation. "What's it like in Slytherin?"
"Well, it's okay. Some of the older students are mean to me, though." Scorpius looked from side to side, obviously uncomfortable.
"He should've been put in Gryffindor, dad, it was real brave how he stood up to them." Albus stood up straight, daring him to say something about Scorpius' father. He gritted his teeth when Harry replied.
"Nah, Slytherin runs in the family."
Ginny waved at Lily, who was skipping down the platform with Hugo. They were followed by James and Rose who wheeled their trolleys through the crowd like the best of friends.
Scorpius halted beside Scorpius and ruffled the younger boys hair, an action Harry and Ginny had only ever seen him perform on Albus. They shared amazed expressions; were all their children friends with the Malfoy boy?
"Coming home with us, then?" James asked, and Scorpius nodded. "The Weasleys are coming too," he told his parents, "staying for Christmas and all."
"That's right," Ron and Hermione appeared out of the crowd. "We'll pitch a tent in the yard, just like old times."
"Excellent." Harry said, it was clear that he was genuinely happy to have his old friends staying with them. "We'll have to stop at the supermarket on the way home, since we're feeding a circus."
"Oh come on," Ron rolled his eyes, "we've got Hermione!"
I bought acactus. A week later it died. I got depressed because I thought Damn, I am less nurturing than a desert. -Demetri Martin
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