It’s beginning to feel a lot like… the Furious Fiction Christmas Eve Story Showcase! So gather up your tidings of joy, deck those halls and jingle all the things as we unwrap the creative 500-words-or-fewer gifts YOU left under our tree this month, using these prompts:

• Each story had to take place (mostly) on Christmas Eve/December 24.
• Each story had to include a character who has an accident of some kind.
• Each story had to include the words AGAINST, TOOTH and ORANGE. (Longer variations were allowed.)

And wow, the teens may cringe, but the hundreds of entries truly did “sleigh all day”. Whether it was a nostalgic Aussie summer story, a snowy Northern yuletide or a Santa-themed romp, you delivered plenty of festive cheer and creativity – with our judges suffering seasonal whiplash as we were thrown from freezing to sweltering and back and again! (If you’re curious, 32% of this month’s stories came from the Northern Hemisphere.)

Perhaps it’s the silly season getting to us, but many of you also saw this challenge as an opportunity to create some mirth and mischief resulting in plenty of saucy and debauched plots. We admit that we were asking for trouble with ‘TOOTH’ as a mandatory word, giving us many delightful “Santa + Tooth Fairy” crossover episodes. (Some even roped in the Easter Bunny for good measure.) And it seems a lot of characters are getting ORANGES in their stockings this year (although, we did enjoy some spray-tanned Santas too!).

This month it feels appropriate that after the Top Pick, we split our story showcase into a NICE LIST and then a NAUGHTY LIST. They’re all great, but let’s just say the latter list errs more on the mischievous side! And the lists don’t stop there, with our longlisted authors following at the end.

Well done to ALL those who entered this month’s challenge. And a special congratulations to this month’s Top Pick story from Roger Leigh. Enjoy reading and happy holidays!

DECEMBER TOP PICK:

COMING READY OR NOT by Roger Leigh, NSW

Oh God it’s Christmas tomorrow and the turkey’s half stuffed which was supposed to make everything smooth and stress-free according to Jamie Oliver’s advice to prepare everything ahead of time but which failed to take into account me remembering halfway through mixing the toothsome individual desserts that I hadn’t finished decorating the tree at which I stood tinsel in one hand and fairy lights in the other looking at the empty space under the tree and realising that I hadn’t wrapped any of the presents which led to the discovery that I hadn’t brought half the presents sending me on an emergency dash to the shopping centre where the car ran out of petrol halfway up the ramp to the carpark and rolled back to crunch into a shiny orange four wheel drive which turned out to be driven by The Grinch who I could hear shouting even before I wound down the window so he could mansplain the function of my automotive braking system before we exchanged contact details which certainly won’t mean he’ll be getting a Christmas card from me and neither will the NRMA man who arrived half-an-hour later so overflowing with the joys of the season I wanted to punch his inane smiling face even though he did get me going again so I could wait another fifteen minutes for a park before wrestling my way through five million other last-minute shoppers to purchase a Squishmallows who-names-this-shit Squish-a-Longs 25 pack for Maria’s kids because you have to play the adoring aunt even if the little darlings will lose all 25 down the back of the sofa which at least won’t be the fate of the battery charger with batteries not included I bought for the man who has everything because he says he loves irony which presumably accounts for him pissing off to the golf course for it’ll only be half a round love with his mates who he won’t see again until the New Year because Cliff is taking Maria to The Maldives which I’m not against because it’s just absolutely totally fine that Maria will be sat drinking mojitos around a hotel pool over the holiday while I supervise her little darlings and the annual festive fiasco at my house which I walk around now to survey the unfinished turkey and the melting individual desserts and the half-decorated tree and the pile of part-wrapped presents before returning to the fridge to open the bottle of Sémillon which was supposed to be saved to go with the turkey tomorrow but from which I now pour a glass as big as my head and retire to the balcony to recline in the dappled shade from the Sydney Red Gum enjoying a gentle breeze wafting in off the sea and the hiccupping chortle of a family of kookaburras and

Oh God it's Christmas Day.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Phew! Aaaand breathe. This may not have been the only story to deal with the chaos of this time of year (oh, there were MANY). However, the ingenious delivery style of this piece in one breathless single sentence perfectly captures the tone and relentlessness of everything that needs getting done in the run up to the big day. Along the way, there are many hilariously relatable moments and even the ending sneaks up on you in a realistic way – as in “oh, suddenly the day is here!” So, we raise a glass of Sémillon to this story and all those still with a lengthy list of things to do. It’s coming, ready or not!

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THE NICE LIST:

THE STEADFAST SOLDIER by Martin Smith, VIC

A soldier stood in steadfast guard on Christmas Eve, resplendent in his uniform, all orange and blue. But not as blue as his mood within.

Like every previous year he’d drawn the short straw and had guard duty during the staff Christmas Eve party. Not only did he miss out on the fun and frivolity, but it meant he had no chance of improving his non-existent love life.

He released a hiccup, as he was a little legless, having taken a tipple of eggnog to dull his melancholy. How could anyone get to know the real him, he lamented, or that beneath his stern, steadfast, tin-hearted demeanour he was a funny, fun-loving kind of guy, a born romantic? If only he could mingle to find a soulmate, his heart of tin would surely melt to a molten love.

Part of the problem was the lack of new blood. There was Angel, a real diva who acted as if she was above everyone else, Candy, a pallid redhead of a seductive, stick-thin curve and a sickeningly sweet personality, and Jacqueline, whom he swore had ADHD for she always popped up out of nowhere and scared the living shit out of everyone when they least expected it. Last year, he chatted up Bonnie Bonn during his rostered break. Alas, despite his best one-liners, not a single spark ignited between them. Later, he’d seen her getting hot and steamy with Frosty and going off like a cracker.

He sighed. Would he ever have his happy ever after?

But then he gasped! He clutched his hands against his chest as his heart raced, for ahead he saw a paper-thin ballerina. And beside her stood the most handsome soldier he had seen. He had the same uniform, the same swarthy looks, the same granite jaw, and he, too, had been lumped with guard duty. Oh God! What a hunk! To hell with all that heteronormative shit. Nothing like a man in uniform to melt a tin heart. Here was a soulmate to like, to love, to lust. Here, now, and for happy ever after.

He gave a toothy smile.

An identical toothy smile returned.

He gave a slow “once-up-and-downer”.

An identical slow “once-up-and-downer” returned.

He gave a saucy pout.

An identical saucy pout returned.

Good God! he thought, they’re a perfect match. If the sexual chemistry between them were any stronger, it’d be Guy Fawkes Night.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. Happy ever after, here I come!

But when he opened his eyes, the love of his life had vanished.

A crash came, and he looked down and saw shards of glass scattered about the floor.

‘Mum,’ a girl’s voice shouted, ‘the ornamental mirror on the Christmas tree fell off and shattered.’

‘Noooo!’ the steadfast soldier cried. A tear trickled down his cheek, for he was doomed to spend another loveless year in the shoebox in the cupboard, crammed in with his fellow Christmas ornaments.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We kick off the ‘nice’ list with a tale of unrequited love. Or on reflection, we should perhaps say shattered dreams, as we are introduced to some familiar tree decorations and a particular nutcracker soldier going out on a (tree) limb to search high and low for his perfect someone. And just when it seems he has found his special match, Narcissus-style, , it ultimately mirrors a classic tale of heartbreak. Looks like it’s back to the shoebox for another year, but we’re sure he’ll soldier on.

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LUCKY NUMBERS by Tiffany Harris, USA

I was born on December 24th between Newports and scratch-offs, under tinsel that hadn't been changed since July.

Minutes old, and time’s already ticking against me. Blinking holiday lights cast shadows across the clerk's gold tooth. It winks back. My barcode slides from the printer, fresh ink still settling into my fibers.

The man buying me has dirt under his fingernails and a coat sleeve he keeps fiddling with, like it might mend itself. Eight quarters make a silver pool on the counter while Nat King Cole roasts chestnuts overhead. His wallet holds three dollars and a school photo. The girl in it needs braces.

He whispers six numbers to me under his breath: 41, 35, 28, 23, 17, 4.

Birthday numbers, he tells no one in particular—his mother's, his daughter's, his own.

***

Everything goes sideways when the delivery truck skids.

Wooden crates splinter, scattering oranges that roll past my buyer's splayed finger. His skull meets concrete. I land in a white blanket stained by citrus and blood. Somewhere, a bell rings for midnight mass.

The truck driver stumbles out, young and shaking. Vomiting everywhere. His truck leaks chemicals that turn snow into soup.

The man who bought me doesn't move.

A receipt skips across the parking lot like a startled bird. His glasses have fallen three feet away, one lens spiderwebbed–crunching like rock salt beneath passing tires.

Angels sing about heavenly peace through broken speakers.

A choir of sirens crescendo onto the scene.

***

EMTs swarm like efficient ants, their boots leaving dark prints in white powder. Numbers spill from their mouths: blood pressure, pulse rate, time until Christmas.

One drops his cigarette in the snow bank where I'm half-buried. The ember sizzles close enough to singe my edge.

They load him onto a stretcher. His arms limp over the side, dripping melted snow.

The truck driver keeps touching the cross around his neck, chanting decimals of guilt.

Nobody sees me dissolving into slush. Smearing away birthday wishes, fading between crushed oranges and cigarette butts. Under tinsel that will outlast us all.

***

December 25th clocks in like any other day. Not far from me, a single orange rests frozen in the gutter, brightening as snow builds around it.

Through the window, the man lies wrapped in tubes as winning numbers scroll across his room’s mounted TV.

Different numbers than mine. Numbers that mean nothing to anyone anymore.

His daughter visits, wearing those crooked teeth, a small wrapped present tucked under her arm. When his eyes flutter open, she grins wide enough to make her braces irrelevant.

She's colored him a picture–stick figures holding hands, standing in front of a Christmas tree.

He reaches for her with trembling fingers.

Time to count what matters.

Three stories down, a white Christmas settles over forgotten tinsel. Right where my body’s becoming pulp. But I hang on for one final countdown.

Five crooked teeth. Four freckles. Three paper snowflakes.

Two warm hands. One shared smile.

Zero distance.

Six numbers that finally add up.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Once again, a non-human protagonist takes centre stage (or ‘center’ stage in this American setting!) and it’s one of the odder characters – that of a lottery ticket. We follow its existence, from a printed birth to an unfortunate resting place, with plenty of human-based action witnessed along the way. And just when we think the numbers will have ended up being the winning ones, we are instead given a completely different set of numbers to linger on – and perhaps a reminder of the actual figures that mean more than printed ones at this time of year. 

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THE HOPE OF PEACE by James Bird, NSW

Condobilin was a world away. It was all Robert could think about when he was able to think. His little sister, her toothless grin, freckles across the nose. His mother, probably dressed in a smock and apron. He had heard that his father was in a hospital in Cairo, waiting to be shipped home. He was lucky — he had lost only one leg.

Robert tried to imagine the Christmas tree back home in the corner of the front room. His mother had written that they would hang a picture of him and his dad on the tree to make it feel like they were there.

But that was when Robert could think. That was when the night sky was not shattered by lightning, not from storms, but white phosphorus. The incessantness. He… they sat in the mud, orange with the mix of blood, waiting for the next shattering explosion. They could only wait but were never ready. Robert jumped every time; they all did. Urine seeped down his leg. His back against the trench wall, one hand holding his helmet, the other his gun, its butt in the mud.

With each jump, they looked at each other with a nervous laugh. The flash of light just long enough to expose the terror on their faces — but they were men.

_____

Arfurt was a world away. It was all Karl could think about when he was able to think. His wife of five months; the reality is it had been two weeks, then he was shipped. Her last letter had brought what would otherwise be uncontainable joy. He was going to be a father, but would he? His greatest fear was that their child would come into the world fatherless.

Karl tried to imagine the wooden tree he had carved for her from Belgian elm. She had written that it sat by her bed so she could go to sleep each night and wake each morning filled with the joy of his gift.

But that was when Karl could think. That was when the night sky was not shattered by lightning, not from storms, but white phosphorus. The incessantness. He… they sat in the mud, orange with the mix of blood, waiting for the next shattering explosion. They could only wait but were never ready. Karl jumped every time; they all did. Urine seeped down his leg. His back against the trench wall, one hand holding his helmet, the other his gun, its butt in the mud.

With each jump, they looked at each other with a nervous laugh. The flash of light just long enough to expose the terror on their faces — but they were men.

______

Then, at midnight…all quiet — the silence was shattering; the darkness, blinding.

“Boys, look”, the call came down the trench. Robert cautiously poked his head above the revetment. There, two hundred yards away, was a small fir tree illuminated by torches from the other side.

The Hope of Peace had come.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

If you’ve ever read the book or seen the film All Quiet on the Western Front, you’ll understand that every war has two sides to its story. Sure, the machinations at the top might be objectively good and bad, but the soldiers on the front line know none of this. And here, the heavy use of repetition illustrates this World War I trench Christmas tale effectively. Both Robert and Karl, despite living in small towns thousands of miles apart are revealed to share similar hopes and fears, as well as the same patch of mud and barbed wire. An original take on the classic legend of the 1914 truce.

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TULIPS AND BUTTERFLIES by Tatiana Samokhina, NSW

Her

She stands barefoot, her toes confident against the sunset-covered asphalt. The Martin Place Christmas Tree blinks its lights, a lazy metronome. Tick-tock, tick-tock. She giggles and presses her fingers together, her arms flying up to her chest. She stomps, and applauds, and claps, and when she calms down, her cerulean tulip skirt – a hue of forget-me-nots – freezes in an inflated adoration. Her hair uncombed, strands hang onto her forehead like lianas, and, frail, she seems too out of place in the cackling-gaggling crowd. Maybe that's why, when her thin lips open, releasing another short, refreshing giggle, he stops – and stares at her with bated breath.

Him

She knows he's there, on her right, watching and silent. She turns around, her dark-orange eyes – a mandarin peel – study his bulky face: a falling-out nose and rounded cheeks – a little surprised, a little flushed, a little embarrassed.

“Hi,” he mumbles, caught.

She beams. “There was an accident.” Her voice floats through the incandescent December air. “Christmas Eve's an interesting day. Every year, something happens.”

“What accident?”

“I lost my butterflies.” She nods.

He hesitates. Everyone's watching the tree; he's watching her. Her arms as slender as her lips, her tight satin bodice twinkles to the beat of the Christmas lights. She smells of tulips and pollen and summer – a fulfilling, fragrant scent. It encircles her, still barefoot, still too out of place in the crowing-squawking crowd. He gasps.

Tulips

“Move!” A man pushes between them. He crosses the road, swinging bags overflowing with gifts. His bearded face disappears into the gloom of the metro tunnel.

She flinches. “Odd. Why are people so angry here?” On her pale cheek, a freckle flares up.

“Where are you from?” A coy, muffled question.

“Botanic gardens.”

“Oh,” he falters. “Okay. I'm from Darlinghurst, close by. You probably know.”

“Yes,” her voice – smooth nectar. “Very pretty. Especially Riley Street with its jacaranda. I prefer tulips; they’re not as sweet, but I appreciate the purple beauty.”

Silence. It doesn’t loom; it’s very faint. Fresh and as surreal as she is, in her dress, barefoot, by the fluttering Christmas Tree.

“Want me to help look for your butterflies?” he offers, unexpectedly for both.

Under her eyes, a sly wrinkle. “I never said I haven’t found them.”

Butterflies

When she says, “You have spinach on your tooth,” his face turns tulip-scarlet. He scrapes the spinach off his incisor and peers down at the asphalt.

The crowd’s noisy. She’s peaceful.

“Want to go out for coffee sometime?” he blurts out.

His question hangs in the air – the spot where she stood only a second ago is empty. He looks around. Right, left. Right, left. No, she isn’t here. She isn’t.

He sighs. A deep, sorrowful sigh.

Then – a faint movement. When he looks up, deep between the shaggy branches of the Christmas tree, he sees them: a flock of cerulean butterflies flapping their wings, circling an as-if-pinned tulip – surreal and slender.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

We appreciate a good meet-cute story, and this Christmas tree adjacent one was circled with just enough intrigue and magic to give us butterflies. Already there seems to be an ethereal and fleeting aura about ‘her’ as she dances beneath the metronomic lights. So it’s no surprise that she catches the attention of ‘him’ and their shy interaction unfurls like a flower in the sunlight. Her home of the Botanic Gardens suggests early that his advances may prove fruitless, but hey, there’s a cafe in the Gardens, maybe they can meet there sometime? Magical realism is at the core of Santa’s story, so we liked that this gave us a different vessel to believe in at this time of year.

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A VISIT TO ST VINCENT’S by Eugenie Pusenjak, ACT

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through Emergency,

The patients kept arriving, with untimely convergency.

The nurses were doing their best to triage,

“No ma’am, you must stay, you can’t be discharged!”

The uncomfortable plastic chairs were all filled,

With the bleeding, the bruised, the concussed, and the ill.

Why all this fuss? What was the reason?

Quite simply: Christmastime is the accident season.

 

There’s Uncle Frank, who, when prepping the feast,

Dropped the turkey on his foot and roared like a beast.

Now he sits waiting, with a fractured big toe,

(He’ll never again defrost while drinking Merlot!)

And poor Auntie Dot with a front tooth in pieces,

After sampling Rocky Road that was made by her nieces.

And Grandpa’s Christmas will be somewhat sadder;

When putting up tinsel, he fell off the ladder.

 

There’s Cousin Aggie, why’s she here? (Great question!)

Too many mince pies, it seems, led to indigestion.

And the Mulligans from next door, all in a flap;

Their toddler chewed the fairy lights: cue an ominous *zap*.

The guy over there in orange high-viz?

A cork to the eye from opening the fizz.

And the lady here with the twisted lumbar?

A nasty encounter with a remote-controlled car.

 

Then, amid all the chatter and moans and yells,

Came the clopping of hooves and jingling of bells.

There entered a man, all dressed in red,

(Thankfully not demanding a bed!).

The stump of a pipe he held in his canines,

Clearly ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ signs.

He had a broad face, and a round little belly,

Like he’d stepped from a Hallmark movie, out of the telly.

Everyone knew it was dear old St Nick,

Come to comfort the wounded, the frail, and the sick.

 

He stroked his white beard, hitched up his belt buckle,

Opened his arms, and said with a chuckle:

“My dear friends, I see that you’ve been through the wars.

And it’s hard to be merry when your head is sore,

When your finger is sliced and your ankle is sprained,

But let’s grit our teeth against all the pain.

I know many here are feeling quite queasy,

So, indulge me please, whilst I say something cheesy.

 

Things are never as bad as they seem.

And soon you’ll be eating your trifle with cream.

In years to come, your Christmas fails,

Will form the basis of many a fond family tale.

Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Cupid, now Comet!

Let’s splint the bones and clean up the vomit!

I thank you all for your patience and endurance,

And I sincerely hope you have private health insurance!”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

Yes, we did naturally receive a number of ‘twas the night before Christmas’ style poems – and there were some truly excellent ones! So much so that we’ve chosen to showcase this one in our nice list and to end on another in our naughty list. Considering we asked for an accident to take place, the hospital setting made perfect sense here as we are reminded that Christmas is not just the silly and festive season, but also accident season! What follows is a comedic conveyor belt of ways you can injure yourself at this time of year – but it qualifies for the nice list thanks to Saint Nick swooping in to save the day (although that final line did make us chuckle and wince knowingly!). Clever stuff.

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UNTITLED by Lyn O’Dwyer, QLD

We always left in the dark, before sun-up. Seven of us packed in the station wagon, roof racks stacked high. Us kids took turns by the open windows, hair batting our ears, or in the back, stretched out beside the dog. The miles peeled away behind us, dry paddocks, tangled fences, bark-torn gums. We’d pull over in truck stops and drink warm, orange cordial from plastic flasks, thongs sticking to the tarmac and the sun threatening to turn us into crackling. One of us always managed to skin a knee or slam a finger in a door. We spread towels on the seats to stop us sticking to the vinyl and whinged about the heat.

Mum handed us vegemite sandwiches from the front. The crusts were curling and the butter melted but we scoffed them anyway. Sometimes, Dad bought us icy poles at a servo and we’d stand in the shade with sticky juice running down our arms. Once, he pulled over and told us, “I’m going to see a man about a dog,” and went off behind some bushes. I cried because he didn’t bring back a puppy. We played I Spy until the words got stupid or we were limp from the effort. Drove on and on through the bareness until our bums were numb and everyone was grizzly.

The dry gave way to cane fields and Queenslanders and the smell of sun on wet season. Then we’d pull off the highway at the honesty fruit stand where Mum always bought mangoes and headed straight into the setting sun, all of us squinting but hyped, knowing we were close. Turned left again on to the dirt road and rumbled across the cattle grid, past the chicken sheds and the giant poinciana tree, decked out in flamenco ruffles, and arrived at the fibro shack.

Nana and Pop would already be out front, open armed. We all spilled out to be crushed against bellies and kissed on our heads, with cries of “You’ve grown so big!” The house smelled of baked ham and fruit cake. Uncles would be standing around the sizzling, spitting barbecue, beer cans in hand, a halo of insects round the porch light. We’d each have a sausage on bread and cycle through the bath like an assembly line. Us kids, with wet hair plastered to our skulls, wearing our shorty pyjamas, fresh from the packets, would bunk down on lilos around the tree, empty pillow-cases and stockings at our feet.

Back then, we all believed in the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and Santa, so none of us could sleep for the butterflies and tingles. Laughter and clinking glass drifted in from out back and we giggled in the dark until an adult shouted for us to shut up and go to sleep. Eventually, the day’s miles caught up with us and we’d be out like lights, until the first kid’s squeal at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day. It was all so worth it.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Dripping with nostalgia (and sweat), this story will hit a nerve with anyone who made (or still makes) annual pilgrimages this time of year – even more so if they were in summer, where the only ice is in the esky! From the pre-dawn start to the packed station wagon with scorching vinyl seats to the passing summer landscape and retro snacks, this really does take you back to an earlier time in gentle fashion. The car games, the fibro shack, the smell of the barbecue, sleeping on the floor and so much more – it’s all here. And even if you live in the snowy north, there is enough common ground of holidays past to raise a beer can (or mulled wine) to this reflective piece.

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O HOLY NIGHT by Melanie Jardinera, VIC

Santa has it easy, in my opinion. One night of work a year, and he gets all the perks: adoration of happy families, drowning in offerings of milk and cookies, a fleet of flying reindeer whisking him through the stars. Joyeux Noel.

As for me, it's not that simple. I work 365 nights a year, and my presence is greeted with emotions more ambiguous than joy. Some kids are excited to lose a tooth, sure. It's part of growing up. But there are tears, too, at this strange bruised bloody phenomenon, the baring of the tender root. The body, subject to its own inscrutable rhythms and tides, rising and falling.

Anyway. Here we are, another Christmas Eve, and while Santa bellows hearty ho-ho-hos across the night sky, I have business to attend to. A deciduous maxillary lateral incisor belonging to seven-year-old Jacob Heathmont. Newly detached after its owner decided to experiment with biting an unpeeled orange and now singing its plaintive siren song, beckoning me to come gather.

Jacob lives on the scrubby outskirts of town. I pick my way through midnight streets, houses dripping with gaudy Christmas lights. Transfixed by their hideously insistent cheer, I fail to look where I'm going and trip over a nativity scene set up on the verge, cursing as I stub my toe on Baby Jesus' crib.

By the time I limp my way to Jacob's dark bedroom I'm in a grinch-foul mood.

Jacob is small and pyjamaed, clutching a faded teddy bear against his chest. Quiet as I am, he sits bolt upright.

“Dad?” he says. A slight quiver in his voice. Then, squinting into the shadows where I stand in silence, he says, hesitantly: “Santa?”

“Sorry, kid. Santa will swing by later. I'm just here for the tooth.”

“You're… the tooth fairy?!”

“Actually, technically I'm an interdimensional extra-terrestrial cursed to roam your planet collecting fallen calcified chompers of children in exchange for gold and silver, for reasons which are too complicated to explain in the short time we have together. But yeah. Close enough.”

He's quiet, contemplating this. Then squints at me again.

“Do you grant wishes?” he says.

“What do I look like, a genie?”

“Can you do magic?”

“What exactly are you needing here, kid?”

He's quiet for another moment. Then: “All I want for Christmas is for my parents to stop fighting.”

Inwardly I groan. This is above my pay grade. But: “I'll see what I can do.”

In the next bedroom his parents are asleep, Dad snoring in a fug of rum-breath, Mum in troubled sleep on a tear-stained pillow, bruises emerging like evening stars on her puffy face. I remember them, both of them. Collecting their milky teeth while they slept in gossamer-innocent dreams. You humans break my heart sometimes.

I limp back next door. “I'm praying for world peace, kid. Truly. In the meantime you wanna come on a Christmas adventure with me, raid some houses for stray cookies?”

He gives me a gappy grin.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS:

As we said upfront, the temptation to bring the tooth fairy into the storytelling mix was too great for many of you, and we loved the narrative voice of this disgruntled ‘interdimensional extra-terrestrial’ as they lament on their job satisfaction in comparison to the bringer of joy. We loved the professional description of the ‘deciduous maxillary lateral incisor’ and the interactions this fatigued fairy has with young Jacob. It’s not all fun and games however, with a child’s wish that even our magical narrator cannot grant. Skillfully written, this story’s mix of heart and mirth makes it the ideal candidate to move us from the nice list to the naughty one…

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THE NAUGHTY LIST:

THE DOWNING OF FLIGHT 327 by Mark Hendrickson, USA

December 25, 2024

American Airlines passenger flight 327, on approach to Boston's Logan Airport from New York, was struck yesterday shortly before midnight by a private cargo sleigh driven by well-known saint and philanthropist Kris Kringle. Of the 280 passengers aboard the flight, only three survived, having been caught in midair by Mr. Kringle's service reindeer. Mr. Kringle was unharmed in the incident. Additional casualties occurred when passenger bodies and debris fell through roofs of houses along the flight path, injuring several occupants.

A spokesman for the FAA, which monitored the aircraft, described the orange sleigh as having “slammed against the plane like a ballistic missile through tin foil at 30,000 feet.” Some officials privately blamed the incident on Mr. Kringle's advanced age and recent air traffic budget cuts.

Military officials from NORAD, however—responsible for tracking the sleigh—cited the complexity of calculating relativistic speeds within Earth's atmosphere and the inherent difficulty of translating these observations to civilian air traffic control personnel in real time. “We’re fighting tooth and nail to understand what happened here, but this is science and magic; it will take some time.”

Kris Kringle (aka St. Nicholas, or “Santa Claus”) gained worldwide acclaim for his philanthropic work with children and was canonized by the Catholic Church in the third century. The Vatican declined to comment.

Mr. Kringle has stepped down as CEO of his worldwide delivery service pending investigation, leaving his lieutenant, Krampus, in temporary command. Amazon and FedEx delivery services stepped in to aid in the delivery of toys and supplies in the aftermath of this disaster.

This is a developing story.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

We did warn you – and immediately out of the (airport) gate, we’re hit with a disaster that feels scarily realistic. That’s thanks to the news reportage style of this piece, unfolding the day after but cleverly describing the tragic events of the night before. And really, it was only a matter of time before this aging driver hit something as he criss(mas)-crossed his way across the planet on this important night of the year. Some extra effective touches included the ‘private cargo sleigh’ description, the budget cuts and the Vatican declining comment. Yes it’s dark, but we love how this one is fully committed to the (developing) story, which feels almost plausible (Clausible?) in this age of 24/7 news.

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A NORMAL WORK DAY by Michał Przywara, Canada

Santa’s reverie was broken when his face smashed into the sleigh’s dash.

“Christ!”

He patted his smarting nose, fearing it too was broken, but with his red suit he couldn’t tell if there was any blood.

“Are you okay?” Rudolph said, appearing by the sleigh’s door.

“Rudolph! What the hell!”

“Sorry!”

“I could have died.”

“Santa! I hit a Prius.”

Santa glared at him. Then he shimmied out of the sleigh and onto the bungalow’s roof – and wouldn’t you know it! Right by the chimney, there stood an orange Prius, its passenger-side door dimpled. The sleigh had a dent too, and there was glitter all over the snow.

“How did they park a Prius up here?”

Before Rudolph could answer, they heard scraping coming from the chimney. Then, one hand appeared, and then, another, and a moment later a woman in a pink tutu hauled herself out. A pink tutu, smeared with soot and cookie crumbs.

“I should have known,” Santa rumbled with a glare. “Tooth Fairy.”

She blinked up at him and took the scene in. “Oh! My car! What the hell did you do!?”

“You can’t park here on the 24th,” said Rudolph. “It’s against the rules! This is a Christmas loading zone.”

“Can’t park my ass,” she replied.

Santa drew himself up, sniffed. “This is the most important night–”

“–for you. For the rest of us, it’s a normal work day, and let me tell you, teeth don’t take vacations. And here’s another thing – for a guy that only works one night a year, you’re awful lippy.”

“Hey! Easy now! I’ll have you know, during that one night I have to visit every-friggin’-house in the world. And there’s so much prep before we start. Like, year-round.”

“Oh? And are you on call 24/7?”

“Lady, ‘on call’ would imply my shift ever ended.”

Rudolph’s ears wilted as the argument rose.

“Bee-ess,” said the Tooth Fairy. “You just order a bunch of elves around for three-hundred-and-forty-six days–”

“–three-hundred-and-sixty-four–”

“–whatever. And then you work one. Oh, and what kind of work is it? Why, it’s literally bringing joy to children! Whereas what do I do? I collect their bloody teeth, which is cold comfort, because let me tell you – those teeth are a constant reminder of their mortality, a painful nagging that with each one they lose, they inch ever closer to their inevitable death. And what do they get for it? A lousy quarter.”

“You have no idea how heavy my bag of gifts is. No idea how easy you have it. I’d love to see you try my job.”

“Yeah, well,” she said. “I’d love to see you try mine.”

They glared at each other. Then the glares softened. Santa offered his bag of toys, and the Tooth Fairy tossed him the keys to her Prius.

“Come on, Randolph!” she said. “Let’s go spread some joy.”

“It’s Rudolph!”

“Whatever.” She jumped in the sleigh, and off they went.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Want to get the reader’s attention in flash fiction? Have Santa’s face smash into the sleigh’s dash in the first line! Literally starting with a bang, this story proceeds to explain the reason for the prang and the double-parked, double-booking sees us once more face to face with our good friend the Tooth Fairy! Once more, the Fairy is loaded with sass (we also love that she drives an orange Prius!) and there’s a clear rivalry at play as each tries to outdo each other in the “my job is harder than yours” stakes. All it takes is for a bluff to be called and suddenly we’re in job swap mode. A hilarious rooftop romp!

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THE TWELFTH DAY by Liana Black, QLD

The drumming began, drilling into my skull one rom-pom-pom at a time. Orange sunlight poured through the venetian blinds of my bedroom window, the stench of manure and pond scum curdling in the thick Brisbane, December air.

What is it today?

My pyjamas clung to my clammy body as I peeled myself from the sweat-pooled bedsheets and edged toward the window. Fingers shaking, I lifted a slat in the blinds and closed one eye to focus my vision through the small gap.

The moo of a dairy cow bellowed. Dozens of white wings flapped with fright.

When will this end? How will it end?

“Carol!” A man’s voice cried out, loud enough to wake the neighbourhood—just in case the drumming drummers or the mooing cows or the squawking flock of feathered foe hadn’t pulled them from their holiday slumbers already. “Merry Christmas Eve, my love!”

My body hit the floor.

I crawled to my bedside table and reached for my phone.

“Triple Zero – Police. What’s your emergency?” The operator’s calm tone was angelic amidst the farmyard insanity roaring outside my suburban home.

“I’m being stalked. He’s outside right now.”

“Your name?”

“Carol Sings.”

“Carol, do you know this man?”

“No.”

“I’m sending a unit to your location. Does he have a weapon?”

“I don’t know, but he has a whole aviary and a herd of cattle in my front yard.”

“Cattle?”

“It started eleven days ago with just a pot plant on my doorstep. I thought it might be an early Christmas present from friends, but there was a toothpick stuck in the dirt with a note. ‘From your true love’. When another arrived the next day, I thought it might be a shipping error. But then there was a third and these three fucking chickens in my yard. And if I’m being honest, they had a bit of an attitude.”

“The chickens?”

“Luckily, my neighbour’s sister has acreage at Gatton, so she took them away. But again, the next day, another tree and three more chickens. On the fifth day, at least there was some jewellery, but the day after that, he’s back at it again with more birds. Six geese. Then, seven swans.”

“Carol, I’m going to request an ambulance as well. Have you been going through a stressful time lately?”

“I’m not crazy. You just don’t know what I’m up against here. Saturday, I wake up and there are EIGHT COWS in my front yard. So, I’m ringing the RSPCA like, do you guys take COWS? They trampled my Christmas decorations, shat all over the garden.”

“Have you taken any drugs recently, Carol?”

“But that’s not the worst of it.” I swallowed. “The last two days, he’s brought a…”

“A what?”

“A flash mob. People dancing and leaping in the street.”

“I’m sending all units.”

“Now today, it’s a marching band of drummers, and he’s actually here, declaring he’s my true love. I’ve never met him. I’m not even straight.”

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

We’re going to start off by saying that yes, we KNOW that the traditional twelve days of Christmas start on the day itself and go till early January, but we certainly weren’t going to let that get in the way of a great story! Here, in true retail sale fashion, this exhausted narrator (with the great name of Carol Sings) has a suitor who has been love bombing her for the twelve days leading up to Christmas. We join the action on the final day as drummers are rom-pom-pomming poor Carol awake and it's clear she has had quite enough. As the emergency call escalates, we learn of the famous gifts her mystery admirer has been bestowing upon her. And really, when you think about it, it truly is quite maddening how anyone would WANT all these gifts. (Leave the gold rings, take the rest!) Add to this the juxtaposition of a Northern song touching down in a hot Brisbane December and it’s chaos of the very best kind!

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TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE… by Simon Shergold, USA

He was desperately trying to keep a lid on things, but the Easter Bunny was fucking furious. He was so angry he was having trouble picking the lock on the barn door, his paws shaking and the sweat running into his eyes despite the cold. He wasn’t used to working in these temperatures and he thought fleetingly about the watery spring sunshine that he loved so much. The Tooth Fairy, hovering just above his left shoulder, noticed the sudden lack of focus and gave him a sharp nudge.

Bunny narrowed his eyes at Tooth, his rage barely contained. The blood pulsing at his temples the way it had at the Fictional Characters Annual Awards ceremony just one short week ago. The Lifetime Achievement Award was his, the council had assured him.

‘And the winner is … Nicholas …’ the rest lost in a roar of applause as old fat boy lurched up from his seat, belly nudging the guests as he squeezed his way through the tables, to collect the gold statuette. Revenge was all that was on Bunny’s mind.

For her part, Tooth was equally bitter. Lifetime achievement? The lazy sod only worked one day a year and just look at the team he had. The ultimate glory taker. Tooth was a one-woman band, on call every night for 364 years now, never once taking a sickie. She knew the judges were unhappy with the tax charges hanging over her head, but surely they realised that keeping that amount of cash in used notes and small change was a vocational necessity, not embezzlement? She silently seethed, as Bunny finally clicked the lock and pushed against the door, nudging it open.

Dasher was waiting for them as arranged, another poor soul overlooked in Santa’s endless quest for good publicity. He’d played the long game, going deep undercover in the middle of the sleigh pack since 1939, when that orange nosed bastard (it wasn’t red, no matter what anyone said) had him sidelined. The three strange comrades stood grimly determined in the shadows of the barn.

With a nod of his antlers, Dasher led them towards the sleigh. It was kept in the repair shop this close to take off, a red digital counter blinking away as the clock ticked down. It was Blitzen’s turn to keep guard tonight and normally she would have been circling the sleigh, her breath forming vapour in the cold night air. However, Dasher had slipped her a doped carrot or two and Blitzen’s gentle snores told the intruders all was well.

What happened next has become part of folklore, even in this place. Some say the weight of the snow made the roof collapse. Others say it was an elf booby trap. The local paper said it was ‘the act of a higher power’. Like everything in this town it was covered up, the façade of perfection to be maintained at all costs. Just don’t lose a tooth on Christmas Eve and expect a penny.

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

Yes, the Tooth Fairy is back (we really were asking for it, weren’t we?), but this time our main character is the Easter Bunny! And EB is set on sweet sweet foiled-wrapped revenge as once more Santa has been stealing the limelight from his magical friends. Okay, the same grievances are aired (“only works one day a year” etc), but the dark streak running through this is brilliant – a Fairy being investigated for tax fraud for all the cash jobs, the double-crossing reindeer Dasher. Barnstorming and bold, we simply couldn’t resist this team-up we never knew we needed.

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MIRACLE ON SITE 34 AT WOOP WOOP CARAVAN PARK by Athena Law, QLD

Was the night before Crimbo, and in the caravan park,

all was real quiet, the dogs had had their last bark.

The pillowcases were hung in the annexe with care

hoping that bloody Santa soon would be there;

 

The kids were all squashed up in their bunks

With threats of “no pressies” if they tried any junk

And the missus with her Baileys and me with my beer

Had just settled down for some pre-Crimbo cheer,

 

When outside the dunnies there was an uproar

Had someone hit my bloody VX Commodore?

Out the van door I ran but something went wrong

I tripped down the steps in my fancy new thongs

 

But there in front of me, a fair-dinkum sight

A sleigh pulled by reindeers above me in flight

Across the gum trees they made a bonza big loop

Then down they came in a big magpie swoop

 

Driven by a bloke in red trackies drinking a Fanta

I knew straight away this old bugger was Santa

Laughing like a ratbag, his whip wildly he threw,

He whistled, and shouted, and called out to his crew;

 

“Now, Charlene! now, Scott! Now, Boomer and Bazza!

On, Brucie! On, Matilda! On, Sheila and Shazza!

Now, across the top of the caravan park in a hurry!

Park up on that big one while I sneak a quick durry!”

 

So on top of our van they landed with a thump,

Sleigh fuller with toys than my trip to the dump.

I could hear tinkling and tapping above on the roof,

Praying that my TV antenna would not meet with a hoof.

 

As I unzipped the mozzie screen door of the annexe

Then entered old mate, beard covered in ash flecks

His trackies were Adidas and his Crocs were fur-trimmed,

A plump bloke he was not, in fact he was much slimmed.

 

A strange flamin’ galah he was, a jolly short man,

And I laughed when I saw him, nearly dropping my can.

He winked and he grinned, he was missing a tooth,

He was the real bloody deal, I shouted out Strewth!

 

He held orange plastic bags spilling gifts from the tops,

And he looked just like my missus coming home from the shops.

But his face, it was merry! his eyes–how they twinkled!

His cheeks were so red! his skin–oh so wrinkled!

 

He spoke not a word, but looked around for a tree

Instead, finding the tinsel-wrapped, Great Northern esky.

Then laying his finger against his red nose,

And giving a nod, up into the air he rose;

 

He jumped in his sleigh, to his crew gave a “Hey”

And away they all flew like my wages on payday.

But I heard him shout back as he flew the sleigh clear,

“Merry Chrissie to youse all, see ya next year!’

FURIOUS THOUGHTS

As promised, we end on another rendition of the famous poem, this time perfectly capturing the sights, sounds and smells of a true Aussie Christmas! It might not have the timeless magic of festive classic Miracle on 34th Street, but this caravan park ditty serves up extra helpings of relatable fare – including the VX Commodore, mozzies, crocs, gum trees and plenty of bonzas and fair-dinkums that all  ring true-blue in this part of the world. Strewth, we couldn’t think of a better way to send off this collection of festive stories here at the Australian Writers’ Centre. So Merry Crimbo, all youse Brucies and Shielas. Bloody oath!

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THIS MONTH’S ‘LONGLIST’

Each month, we include an extra LONGLIST (approx top 10–15%) of stories that stood out from the submitted hundreds, were considered for the showcase and deserve an ‘honourable mention’. Remember, all creativity is subjective, but if your name is here, take a moment to celebrate! (And to ALL who submitted stories, we’d LOVE to see you again NEXT YEAR!)

THIS MONTH’S LONGLIST (in no particular order):

• BLOTTO IN THE GROTTO by Jenny Lynch, WA
• A CHILD IS BORN by Jim Harrington, USA
• SANTA’S LITTLE HELPER by Karen Element, NSW
• HOLLY RAISES THE STAKES by Nissa Harlow, Canada
• CONGA LINE by M.J. Bolton, QLD
• WHY’D THEY PUT ME IN CHARGE? by Ilya Belegradek, USA
• THE ELF by Amelia Gibson, NSW
• THE LIST by Richard Korst, USA
• THE TOYMAKER’S HELP by Stephen Lowcock, NSW
• CHRISTMAS EVE by M C, VIC
• DON’T GET ME STARTED by Maria Santos, VIC
• MY ‘CHRISTMAS TO DO’ LIST by Leonie Jarrett, VIC
• THE UNBORN CHILD by Bruno Lowagie, Belgium
• UNTIL THE MICE SLEEP by Maddison Scott, VIC
• TAFFETA by Martyn Tilse, QLD
• THE TRUE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS by Sarah Edmunds, WA
• GIFT EXCHANGE by Gale Deitch, USA
• A PAUSE FOR MRS CLAUS by Madeleine Armstrong, UK
• THAT MAGICAL NIGHT by A. Chan, SA
• A GIFT IN THE NIGHT by Ken Wetherington, USA
• MAKEOVER by Stephen Hickman, VIC
• I KEEP WALKING by Amelia Curtis, VIC
• ST. NICK by Glen Wade, Poland
• A CORPSE GOES TO A BALL by Racheal Jones, USA
• AN OUTBACK CHRISTMAS by G.L. Foster, VIC
• ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by Nico Mara, Ireland
• OH LITTLE TOWN OF ‘GET ME OUT OF HERE!’ by Judy Hogan, NSW
• MERRY ELFING CHRISTMAS by Wendy Adams, TAS
• FRIDAY ON MY MIND by Mike Condon, NSW
• UNTITLED by Hashinee Weraduwage, VIC
• A VISIT FROM ST. NICK by Adele Orsen, USA
• THE VISITORS by Lee McKerracher, NSW
• CHRISTMAS EVE HALL PASS by Ryan Klemek, USA
• THE CHRISTMAS WIND UP by Susan Mclaughlin, VIC
• HARRY AND LARRY SAVE CHRISTMAS by NLCollins, NSW
• RODRIGO IS APPROACHING WITH YOUR ORDER by Jennifer Lindner, USA
• THE GREAT PRAWN HEIST by Sarah Elavia, VIC
• BLOODY CHRISTMAS EVE by Ellen Geohegan, USA
• FALLING 4U by Andrew Harrison, NSW
• THE PHALLIC SAMURAI AND HIS LAST MAGIC SWORD by Chris Sadhill, USA
• GAVIN SAVES CHRISTMAS. THAT, AND HIS CAREER by Pam Makin, SA
• THIS ISN’T A CHRISTMAS STORY by Mileva Anastasiadou, Greece
• HO HO HOMICIDE by Keely Crilley, NSW
• THE ESCAPADES OF RALPH, THE ELF by Lorraine Brockbank, NZ
• MARY’S ACCIDENT by Pete Gailey, NSW
• BLADDER INCIDENT, NORTH PLAZA MALL, 10AM, 24TH DECEMBER by Jeff Taylor, NZ
• SERENDIPITY by Baśka Bartsch, NSW
• BLACK IS THE NEW ORANGE by Peter Byrne, WA
• CHRISTMAS EVE by Susan Hobson, QLD
• TEETH AND TOYS by Bronwyn Hudson, NSW
• LOST CHRISTMAS by Georgina Maxine, QLD
• FINDING COVER IS TRICKY by EB Davis, ACT
• THE SEASON OF GIVING by Freya King, QLD
• GREEN TEA FOR THE HEART VALLEYS by Chloe Paige, VIC
• WHEN TRACY HIT by David Weiss, ACT
• DELIVERANCE by Ryan Butta, NSW
• PRODIGAL SON by Maggie Lewis-Stevenson, USA
• DON’T TOUCH THE ELF by Suzanne Wacker, QLD
• CHRISTMAS FOR THE TOOTH FAIRY by T.A. Dylan, NSW
• THE GAMBLERS by Lucy Schofield, NSW
• MORNING AFTER GROUP CHAT by Ryan K Lindsay, ACT
• THE POST OFFICE by Jeannae Bierstedt, NSW
• CHRISTMAS EVE STORIES by Runaway, VIC
• LITTLE FIBS by Cheryl Lockwood, QLD
• OFF THE SHELF by Melanie WInklosky, USA
• A SURFBOARD FOR CHRISTMAS by Marie Low, NSW
• NOT EVEN A MOUSE by KE Fleming, NSW
• HOLIDAY SWEATERS by Rachel Howden, NSW
• THE TRUE HISTORY OF JACOB MARLEY, DECEASED by Dennis Callegari, VIC
• LETTING THE TEAM DOWN by Immy Mohr, NSW