Here's a holiday story of mine ("Kill a Tree") that might be more CNF than you'd think! It was on the shortlist of Retreat West's Christmas Advent Competition in 2023. The story was deleted as Retreat West migrated to a new website when they became WestWord, so I can't send a link and am pasting it in:
Kill a Tree
It’s our first holiday visit as a couple to my mother’s. On the interstate, a jalopy with a bumper sticker, Kill a Tree for Christ, overtakes us. We hoot; neither of us believes. But Danish hubby C— expects paper hearts hanging on a candle-lit spruce and ris à l’amande. He’s brought his dead father along. Big C—’s knees press into our seatbacks. He keeps us awake through mind-numbing scenery grumbling and eulogizing his last Julefrokost meal of roast pork and caramelized potatoes, red cabbage, and aquavit. He belts Nu er det jul igen on repeat till we beg him to stop.
We arrive to a tree-free house. Our coats off and feet up, Mother lays the table, uncovers the casserole — Ta-da! She’s prepared our family favorite, stuffed grape leaves simmered over lamb bones. Little C— growls. There’s not an almond in sight. Big C—sulks and gurns, goes up in smoke. Clearly their needs for hygge haven’t been met. Little C— tries to let go, staggers into the cold. Mother looks stricken. This is the Christmas she will don a deep-sea diver’s helmet, never to remove it. I flick a napkin across my lap, tuck into lunch, suck on the bones.
Just realized some words should be italicized - they got dropped in the posting: "Kill a Tree for Christ" and "believes" and "ris à l’amande" and "Nu er det jul igen" and "Ta-da!" and "hygge"! Sorry! I didn't see how to edit.
Here's one that I wrote in my first Meg Pokrass workshop! :-) It was originally published in Reflex Fiction, but the link is no longer active. (I believe they are now defunct) So pasting it in as well:
Neither Snow, Nor Rain
We drive the loneliest road in America on Christmas Eve. You worry your mother has been struggling with isolation again. I sing along to rocking carols to drown out the silence as snow falls across the windshield in a fast and furious blur.
The road melts into the sky. You stick your head out the window when the wipers can't keep up. You might have missed her big white house if you weren't on autopilot. I might have missed it if it weren't for the new bright red door.
Inside we're greeted by the smell of burnt coffee and the sizzle of an empty pot. Cookies lie cooling on the table amidst a smattering of crumbs and unopened mail. You stop to straighten a photo of your father hanging crooked on the fridge. We haven't been back since his funeral.
We follow the sound of music into the living room. A man pokes logs in the fireplace. I watch you take a step back.
"You made it," your mother says, tattooing your cheek with a bright red kiss.
She pulls me in for a quick shoulder hug. "This is the mailman," she whispers, all breathy blue frost in my ear.
I try not to shiver. This man has definitely rung more than twice.
"Beer?" The man puts down the fire iron and strokes his 'just for men' goatee.
You push out your chest and snarl that you know where the refrigerator is.
In the kitchen, I pull a half-eaten lasagna from the oven and catch you glancing at the photo of your father again.
I tell you I wish I could have gotten to know him better.
You tell me he never had much to say.
Back in the living room, the man lights your mother's cigarette with his. Smoke swirls like a spirit in the sliver of space between them. She sings along to Frank Sinatra and pours him a drink, her bright red nails clicking against the bottle. You squeeze my hand. I squeeze back.
A deer head with three antlers watches from above the mantel. Your father's urn sits on the shelf below.
We were boys lying on the dock, our toes grazing the cool water below, when the loon’s mournful song echoed across the tree-lined horizon: come morning, we’d be seas apart.
I turned. The August sun kissed your smooth, olive skin as your chest rose and fell with the whispering breeze. I tried in vain to see you like I had six weeks before, like a stranger.
Under the sunglasses, your eyes were closed.
“So, how’s your girl?” I said. Your eyes are cornflower blue, I didn’t say.
Was the loon’s call the slightest bit unbearable to you?
Okay well I might write it for a Flash competition at some point. Thank you for the prompt. Working on my first short story which is quite a challenge so not much other writing happening.
This one, "Inflatable Santas Lining the Block," is one of my favorites, published in the Cafe Irreal in 2021: https://cafeirreal.alicewhittenburg.com/klimesh.htm. (It was an "accidental flash," as I wrote it in 2019 before I actually started writing flash. And it's also on the longer end of flash, 880 words or so--not sure if that's too long for what you're doing.)
Oh, I love Christmas and Christmas stories! I had "The Unicorn's Wife" in Oddball magazine and another one had a honorable mention at the Weird Christmas contest, called "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year", but you have to scroll down to see it.
Here's a holiday story of mine ("Kill a Tree") that might be more CNF than you'd think! It was on the shortlist of Retreat West's Christmas Advent Competition in 2023. The story was deleted as Retreat West migrated to a new website when they became WestWord, so I can't send a link and am pasting it in:
Kill a Tree
It’s our first holiday visit as a couple to my mother’s. On the interstate, a jalopy with a bumper sticker, Kill a Tree for Christ, overtakes us. We hoot; neither of us believes. But Danish hubby C— expects paper hearts hanging on a candle-lit spruce and ris à l’amande. He’s brought his dead father along. Big C—’s knees press into our seatbacks. He keeps us awake through mind-numbing scenery grumbling and eulogizing his last Julefrokost meal of roast pork and caramelized potatoes, red cabbage, and aquavit. He belts Nu er det jul igen on repeat till we beg him to stop.
We arrive to a tree-free house. Our coats off and feet up, Mother lays the table, uncovers the casserole — Ta-da! She’s prepared our family favorite, stuffed grape leaves simmered over lamb bones. Little C— growls. There’s not an almond in sight. Big C—sulks and gurns, goes up in smoke. Clearly their needs for hygge haven’t been met. Little C— tries to let go, staggers into the cold. Mother looks stricken. This is the Christmas she will don a deep-sea diver’s helmet, never to remove it. I flick a napkin across my lap, tuck into lunch, suck on the bones.
#
You reinvent the quirky holiday story! Love it!!!!!
Just realized some words should be italicized - they got dropped in the posting: "Kill a Tree for Christ" and "believes" and "ris à l’amande" and "Nu er det jul igen" and "Ta-da!" and "hygge"! Sorry! I didn't see how to edit.
Here's one that I wrote in my first Meg Pokrass workshop! :-) It was originally published in Reflex Fiction, but the link is no longer active. (I believe they are now defunct) So pasting it in as well:
Neither Snow, Nor Rain
We drive the loneliest road in America on Christmas Eve. You worry your mother has been struggling with isolation again. I sing along to rocking carols to drown out the silence as snow falls across the windshield in a fast and furious blur.
The road melts into the sky. You stick your head out the window when the wipers can't keep up. You might have missed her big white house if you weren't on autopilot. I might have missed it if it weren't for the new bright red door.
Inside we're greeted by the smell of burnt coffee and the sizzle of an empty pot. Cookies lie cooling on the table amidst a smattering of crumbs and unopened mail. You stop to straighten a photo of your father hanging crooked on the fridge. We haven't been back since his funeral.
We follow the sound of music into the living room. A man pokes logs in the fireplace. I watch you take a step back.
"You made it," your mother says, tattooing your cheek with a bright red kiss.
She pulls me in for a quick shoulder hug. "This is the mailman," she whispers, all breathy blue frost in my ear.
I try not to shiver. This man has definitely rung more than twice.
"Beer?" The man puts down the fire iron and strokes his 'just for men' goatee.
You push out your chest and snarl that you know where the refrigerator is.
In the kitchen, I pull a half-eaten lasagna from the oven and catch you glancing at the photo of your father again.
I tell you I wish I could have gotten to know him better.
You tell me he never had much to say.
Back in the living room, the man lights your mother's cigarette with his. Smoke swirls like a spirit in the sliver of space between them. She sings along to Frank Sinatra and pours him a drink, her bright red nails clicking against the bottle. You squeeze my hand. I squeeze back.
A deer head with three antlers watches from above the mantel. Your father's urn sits on the shelf below.
Silent. Always silent.
I remember it so well! It's wonderful! Thanks so much for sharing!
https://gooseberry-pie.com/tangled-up/ Here’s mine.
Thanks Louella!
I have one out today!
https://www.themerseyreview.com/issues/5/thattammygirl
Great!!
Your followers are all so nice. I just loved imagining the panic on the wise men's faces.
This one was published in ScribesMICRO. The link goes to the whole page, and not a particular story : https://www.fairfieldscribes.com/issue-41.html
I guess I'll paste my micro here
Cornflower Blue
by Chelsea Allen
We were boys lying on the dock, our toes grazing the cool water below, when the loon’s mournful song echoed across the tree-lined horizon: come morning, we’d be seas apart.
I turned. The August sun kissed your smooth, olive skin as your chest rose and fell with the whispering breeze. I tried in vain to see you like I had six weeks before, like a stranger.
Under the sunglasses, your eyes were closed.
“So, how’s your girl?” I said. Your eyes are cornflower blue, I didn’t say.
Was the loon’s call the slightest bit unbearable to you?
Thank you!
Its raw despite its age , if I have a free moment I could write it this weekend but not sure if you want new unpublished .
For this, I'm looking at previously published pieces to put links up in a Facebook microfiction group I run..
Okay well I might write it for a Flash competition at some point. Thank you for the prompt. Working on my first short story which is quite a challenge so not much other writing happening.
What a good idea! Here's my contribution:
https://backwardstrajectory.com/2022/12/17/nanas-fruitcake/
"Greg" appeared in Detritus Issue 3 in 2019. The publication seems to have disappeared. My micro is really micro so here it is:
Greg
Yes, I regret last Christmas — cursing my husband for not giving me a baby and
hooking him on those demon pills that made him a smaller and smaller man.
But I won’t pretend I don’t like what he’s become. Fitting snugly in the crib and
looking so adorable in that 'My First Christmas' onesie, he’s now everything I hoped
I’d have.
Great!!
This one, "Inflatable Santas Lining the Block," is one of my favorites, published in the Cafe Irreal in 2021: https://cafeirreal.alicewhittenburg.com/klimesh.htm. (It was an "accidental flash," as I wrote it in 2019 before I actually started writing flash. And it's also on the longer end of flash, 880 words or so--not sure if that's too long for what you're doing.)
This one, "All the Children Around the World," was published in HAD in 2022: https://www.havehashad.com/hadposts/all-the-children-around-the-world.
Thank you!!
Don’t know if what follows is a holiday story, but it was published in December (a few years ago) when I responded to a call for stories about snow.
https://everydayfiction.com/ice-by-dave-alcock/
Thanks Dave!
Oh, I love Christmas and Christmas stories! I had "The Unicorn's Wife" in Oddball magazine and another one had a honorable mention at the Weird Christmas contest, called "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year", but you have to scroll down to see it.
Here are the links:
https://oddballmagazine.com/flash-fiction-by-mileva-anastasiadou-2/
https://weirdchristmas.com/2020/12/23/weird-xmas-flash-fiction-2020-contest-results/
Wonderful! Thanks!
https://gmdileo.substack.com/p/night-of-infamy
https://gmdileo.substack.com/p/a-christmas-quantum-part-1-the-ghost
https://gmdileo.substack.com/p/a-christmas-quantum-part-2-the-ghost
https://gmdileo.substack.com/p/holiday-sorrowsdrowning-and-otherwise
https://gmdileo.substack.com/p/memoirs-of-eddie-h-christ-jesus-little
Fun idea! Here's my holiday micro, from Silver Birch Press.
https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/the-light-that-failed-story-by-kathryn-kulpa-me-during-the-holidays-poetry-and-prose-series/