# December 2013 - LM - A Light in the Attic



## Fin (Dec 3, 2013)

*LITERARY MANEUVERS*​A Light in the Attic​



The winner will receive a badge pinned to their profile and given a month’s access to FoWF where you’ll have access to hidden forums and use of the chat room.


Have the prompt included in some way into your story.


*The judges for this round are:*

*Staff Deployment*; *Folcro*; *J Anfinson*; *Gavrushka*


*Rules*


*All forum rules apply.* The LM competition is considered a creative area of the forum. If your story contains inappropriate language or content, do _not_ forget add a disclaimer or it could result in disciplinary actions taken. Click *here* for the full list of rules and guidelines of the forum.
*No Poetry!* Nothing against you poets out there, but this isn’t a place for your poems. Head on over to the poetry challenges for good competition over there. Some of us fiction people wouldn’t be able to understand your work! Click *here* for the poetry challenges.
*No posts that are not entries into the competition are allowed.* If you have any questions, concerns, or wish to take part in discussion please head over to the *LM Coffee Shop. *We’ll be glad to take care of your needs over there.
*Editing your entry after posting isn’t allowed.* You’ll be given a ten minute grace period, but after that your story may not be scored.
*Only one entry per member.*
*No liking entries until the scores go up.*
*The word limit is 650 words not including the title.* If you go over - Your story will not be counted. Microsoft Word and Google Drive are the standard for checking this. If you feel it’s incorrect, send it to the host of the competition and we’ll check it for you and add our approval upon acceptance.




*There are a few ways to post your entry:*


If you aren't too concerned about your first rights, then you can simply post your entry here in this thread.
You can opt to have your entry posted in the *LM Workshop Thread* which is a special thread just for LM entries. You would put your story there if you wish to protect your first rights, in case you wish to have the story published one day. Note: If you do post it in the workshop thread, you must post a link to it here in this thread otherwise your story may not be counted.
You may post your story anonymously. To do so, send your story to the host of the competition. If you wish to have us post it in the workshop thread then say so. Your name will be revealed upon the release of the score.

Everyone is welcome to participate. A judge's entry will receive a review by their fellow judges, but it will not receive a score.

*This competition will close on:*

Tuesday, the 17th of December at 11:59 PM GMT time.
Click here for the current time.

*Good luck, everyone.*​


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## rockoo315 (Dec 5, 2013)

The mystery around Santa Claus mystifies my children, prompting their eyes to sparkle every time they hear a Christmas tale or see a new decoration hung up around the
house.  The joys and wonders it brings my children reminds me that I was once a kid filled with magic and hope, being oblivious of all the worldly problems.

	My oldest child, Josh, is laying underneath his Power Ranger blankets on Christmas Eve wide eyed, indicating he'd rather stay up to catch a glimpse of Santa than feel refreshed.  But I know better; in an hour, he'll be knocked out.  Until then, it's my job as a mother to entertain him.

	Sitting up in his bed holding his favourite stuffed animal, he asks me a simple question that is common amongst every child.

	“Mom, how will Santa know which house to drop off my presents at,” Josh asks with a hint of doubt.

	“Well, honey, Dad and I set up something very special to let Santa know where to drop your presents off at.  There's a light in the attic that shines brighter than all the rest.  Do you remember the story about the three wise men following the star in the sky to visit Jesus?  Dad borrowed the light from that very star to guide Santa.  And in exactly fifteen minutes, Dad is going to turn on the light in the attic, shining the whole house up.  That's why you must not leave the room and fall asleep shortly.  I don't want you to go blind,” I said, holding my son's hand in mine.

	A huge smile went across Josh's face, indicating my white lie worked.  I felt no remorse; rather, I felt a warmth come over me telling me that for at least this Christmas, the
magic is still with my family.

	Getting up from Josh's bed, I leaned in to kiss his forehead.  I rubbed his curly brown hair, wishing to fast forward eight hours to see the ruined hair come down the stairs to the Christmas magic.  I turned off the lights to his room, and before walking out, reminded him about the attic light and not to leave the room.

	After closing the door, I tip-toed down the hall to check on my two youngest, Alison and Jaime.  Peeking into their room, I see two lifeless angels sleeping to their heart's  content, curled up in their pyjamas with their dolls and animals.  At the end of Jaime's bed, our poodle Dover is sleeping keeping watch.  


	I linger for a few more moments just looking at them.  I think about the blessings I've received over the past few years, especially my wonderful children.  Despite the short
nights dealing with my kids, the constant ruckus in my house, and the daily scares of their recklessness, its moments like this that remind me of why I'm parent.  I'm here to protect them, to give them a sense of hope, and to hopefully inspire them to one day be better than us.  And in this moment, I wish I could freeze time and feel this full for the rest of my life.


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## danteinhickville (Dec 8, 2013)

Black Friday

Nothing jolly came from the light in the attic, while my neighbor’s children smoked pot and blared music.  No complaints brought the local cops to disturb a pillar of the community.

Snow blowers in the winter months replaced lawn mowers to cut my peace short, how many times a week is reasonable.  The answer isn’t four.  My cold would have passed, if I slept eight hours for a couple days in a row.  I know my shift was not traditional but neither was the racket.

Mistletoe red light haunted me from the misplaced glow of electric sex.  The translucent Santa poster came to life when my neighbor’s left their attic light on.  Santa should not have looked that real or seemed to beckon me to join the naughty list.  I almost missed the normal white emanating from their smoke filled attic.  I turned from the monstrosity and opened the car door.

Traffic seemed unusual for the early hour.  Buying medicine from a convenient store would not help my finances.  Money does not buy happiness, but I was sure it has always been a prerequisite.  Money could have given me the power to silence the constant barrage of people asking me to donate to charity without the dirty looks I received when declining.

Pulling in the parking lot, I awoke enough to remember what day it was.  Only the desperate fought Black Friday crowds.  I walked tormented by blowing snow and people that I’m sure blew even more.  My neighbor shot me a smug look as he rang the bell, and I didn’t donate.

I spent two hours inside just to get my cold medicine, struggling the surge of frenzied zombies that would trample any weak member of the herd that fell.  My poison tree ripened a mere fifteen minutes into the ordeal.

Each second over, I recalled every slight I received from the good country person ringing the bell.  I tried not to mumble obscenities through my scarf.  My exhaustion at the hands of my neighbors made it dangerous for any stranger to touch me.

I saw the smirk my dressed as Santa gave some other poor bastard that ventured out for not donating.  Like me, he probably made just enough not to qualify for help but enough to find smirks for not making enough to pay your fair share.

I don’t remember bringing my arm up.  I don’t remember bringing the bell down on my neighbor’s temple.  One motion later, I walked on.

Some opportunistic thieves made a mistake by stealing the kettle just then and taking my punishment.  It made the national news as another Black Friday tragedy.  The local papers mourned his passing.  They spoke of what a great man he was until his children were arrested for rape a month later.

No attic lights, lawn mowers, or snow blowers disrupt my sleep this holiday season.  Merry Christmas.


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## godofwine (Dec 9, 2013)

*Christmas Eve Break-in
*
Det. Walter Claytor yawned as he desperately attempted to fight off _The Sandman_. Dying in a fiery crash leaving a bar on Christmas Eve wasn’t the ending of the day he had in mind. Being single and twice divorced, that kind of ending was a little too cliché for his tastes. He’d just spent six hours at the Front Page Tavern, a cop bar on Massachusetts, as the boys down at the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department had a “Cops Night Out” and all off-duty personnel were there. Even though they’d dragged him out, he’d always had fun whenever the boys got together and coercing him became sort of a tradition at the Southwest District. He waved goodbye to the guys, paid his tab and headed for the parking lot. 

A gust of wind stung his face as he hurriedly jumped into the cab of his F-150, turned the key then drove out of the parking lot. No need to warm the truck for a ten minute drive. He’d had his fill of Christmas songs, but when he leaned forward to cut off the radio he noticed that a light in the attic of his house was on.  

His ex-wife Marjorie had been gone for a year and no one else had a key. Detective Claytor unsnapped his holster, parked in the street two doors down from his house, extracted and pocketed the keys then withdrew his 9mm from the holster before leaving the vehicle. 

_Someone made a mistake breaking into a cop’s house - a monumental mistake - and it would be the last one they’d ever make. 
_
With his gun at the ready he tried the rear door but it was locked so he tried the cellar instead. The cellar door was closed but unlocked, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last used it. He closed his eyes and knelt for thirty seconds outside the door. Gripping the gun in his right hand, he slowly opened the door and disappeared into the dank basement. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness and he cleared the space with ease. With his shoulder against the wall he slid up the staircase keeping his gun trained at the halfway open door to the kitchen that he’d always kept closed. 

_Somebody had definitely been inside. 
_
Upon reaching the kitchen, he locked the cellar door to prevent someone from sneaking behind him. Beginning with the kitchen, he cleared the first floor in counter-clockwise fashion, then pointed the 9mm toward the second floor preparing to repeat the process there when a loud, unearthly guttural shriek from the attic ripped through the dead silent house like a shotgun blast as the detective crouched with his gun at the ready and his shoulder against the staircase wall. He steeled himself, refusing to succumb to the temptation to rush toward the sound without clearing the second floor.  

Walter Claytor was a cop to the end. He quickly cleared the two rooms to the left of the staircase, the bathroom, and the room on the right quietly closing each door behind him. If he’d missed anyone he’d hear the doors open behind him. 

                With only the attic remaining, he clasped the doorknob then gritted his teeth while the hinges whined as he pulled it open. The stairwell was dark, but he dared not turn on the stair light now. Taking two steps at a time, twenty-four years of police training had him clutching the weapon with both hands as he burst into the light of the attic, “You picked the wrong damned house you son-of-a…” 

                In the middle of the attic floor sat an apparently homeless Black woman in her twenties wearing nothing but a tattered blue dress, an equally worn dirty grey summer jacket and old sneakers.

                “I was living down in your basement, but, ouch, I came up here. Help me,” she moaned. “I’m having a baby.”


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## Staff Deployment (Dec 11, 2013)

*Judgentry*

Little Red Lights
646 words​
There were two lights in the attack, red like a gushing vein. They were the eyes of the gnarled beast — the very same beast my daughter had warned me about. I had said to her, "No beast that lives in our attic is a match for a man like me." That was before I discovered it was real.

But there was no time to let the implications sink in. The creature snarled; its mouth was filled with too many teeth. I had brought only a hammer to assuage my daughter's worries. Simply defeating the creature was not enough — I would have to use the hammer alone, because otherwise my daughter would not learn to depend on me. She would not feel safe in her home, knowing that her father had overestimated his abilities.

So I pushed myself fully into the cramped space, with only the beast's eyes as a light source. Two thin strips of red shone through the attic. The beast took a few hobbling steps forward, then screeched, propping itself up on its torn wings to appear bigger. Scythe-like claws sprouted from the tips of the fingers on its wings. It half-jumped, half-scrambled across cardboard boxes and old mattresses and a broken rocking horse, but its eyes gave it away and I was able to smash it with the hammer before it could take a swipe at my face. It crashed in a heap behind a pile of rusty tools. Six or seven spiders scampered away.

We stared at each other for a while. I was undeniably in a better position to win. Its red eyes darted around the room, seeking some sort of advantage, and I found myself mentally keeping up with it, trying to figure out what it was planning and how to outmanoeuvre it, however possible.

Its eyes widened at a sudden thought, and I could swear its omnipresent snarl morphed into a smile. It closed its eyelids. The two little red lights blinked out.

The attic plunged into darkness.

For the longest time, there was total silence. No indication that the creature was moving. Then, a flutter and the creak of wood — off to the right. Maybe the left. No — more fluttering, some scrapes of sharp bone on plaster, a rhythmic clacking of teeth. I followed the noises with my hammer.

For a while I was in awe. The beast was smarter than I'd thought. It knew the darkness and it knew this attic ... it had been living here for quite some time. For weeks my daughter had been complaining about the scratching and the growling and I'd assumed she was making things up. But now I was fighting this thing on my own, in the dark, with no idea where it had gone and no way to find it without a light.

So I closed my eyes and ignored the visuals. I focused on the sound: my own breathing and the steady thump of my heartbeat. But my foe had drawn silent. So I focused on the smell: first musty, then old, then bloody. The first two smells were the attic. The third was the beast.

I struck with the hammer just as it leapt for my face. I felt the dust of the air spiral from the motion of its wings and I struck again, hitting it square in its emaciated chest, and its eyes snapped open in a blinding flash of red light. It crumpled to the ground, squirming in pain.

My foot hovered over its neck in victory. I wanted desperately to stamp down and kill it for good, but I remembered how I could almost sense the gears turning in its brain, and I remembered its desperation.

I came down the ladder. My daughter was waiting at the bottom. She asked how it went.

I told her we had a new pet.


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## InkwellMachine (Dec 11, 2013)

*The Process*

*​*​"It'll be a connectivity problem, then." The engineer squeezed one eye shut and reached an arm into the cluster of pipes and wires. "'Cept I ain't feelin' anything outta place."

"No?"

"Nope. Not a thing." He paused, "Unless..." and forced his arm deeper into the machine, tongue popping out the side of his mouth. The sudden exclamation when he found what he was looking for almost made the operator jump. "Got it. I got it. Okay." He brought his arm back out, forefinger and thumb pinched together around something sticky and black. "Kind of a bitch to figure out, but here's your problem." He opened and closed his fingers in front of the Operator, drawing the black fluid into tacky strings. "You got bad ink."

The operator tilted his head to the side and looked into the machine, utterly bewildered. "What?_ That's _ink?"

The engineer grunted. "More like tar. How often you run this thing?"

"Every day," said the operator flatly, "every fucking day. How the hell does something like this even happen?" He reached a hand inside and scooped out some of the pulpy ink with two fingers, then watched it ooze into a still droplet from his fingertips. He grimaced. "It's like pudding."

"Yeah, well. That's what happens."

The operator turned to the engineer and gave him a long, serious stare. "What do you mean _that's what happens_?" He held is black-tipped fingers up as if it were some sort of lewd gesture. "_This _does not _fucking_ happen."

The engineer nodded toward the operator's fingers. "Did this time. Anyway, don't be such a baby. It's pretty bad, yeah, but I can fix it."

The operator pursed his lips as if he might say something more. Instead he paused, glanced thoughtfully at the machine. “How long will it take?”

“Can’t be sure. Gotta clean the thing out first, and that’ll be hard enough.” The engineer picked a rag from his pocket and began wiping the ink off his hand idly while he ran the procedure over in his head. “Gotta clean it, bleed it, run some water to check for leaks, run new ink to make sure it works…”He nodded slowly. “Yeah. You’re lookin’ at around eight hours, maybe nine.”

“No.” The operator didn’t hesitate. “Too long. I can’t go that long without the light on—I’ll lose the whole flock.”

The engineer shrugged. “That’s what I can give you. Sorry.”

“Bullshit.” The operator became aware that he was trembling, although with frustration or anxiety he could not tell. He worked his face into a more reasonable expression. “Look, I get people like you. There has to be something else you can do.” He stared at the engineer with perfect frankness. “Something more expensive.”

The engineer paused wiping his hands and exhaled. “Well…” He looked at the ground and shook his head. “I ‘spose I know a few tricks.”

“Good, good,” the operator almost laughed with relief. “You had me worried. Show me what you can do—I’ll pay you whatever I can.”

The fix turned out to be quite simple. The engineer took the operator around the facility, showing him how to do exactly what he’d been doing before, and came away with twice the profits. The only difference was that now the operator was actually doing the work, running the machine constantly until it condensed the viscous ink back down into the liquid it was meant to be before he’d let it stagnate.

By the end of the night, the idea plant was up and running again. The great light atop the structure throbbed like a lure in the ocean depths, drawing stray ideas out of the passing flock for harvest.

The operator worked down in the belly of the machine, pulling levers and turning wheels and sweating for the first time in years.

And the coo of new ideas was the tune to which he worked.


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## Fin (Dec 12, 2013)

*All the Creatures Were Stirring…Even the Mouse
Anonymous Entry*​


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## Pidgeon84 (Dec 12, 2013)

_Beautiful Curiosity_ (647 words)


 My house stood in the middle of a valley. Mountains to the west and desert to the east. Only horizons to the north and the south. A lonely yet peaceful existence. I sat on my porch peering out at the majesty that tower to the west. The smell of petrichor began to fill the air. A flash of lightning lit up black clouds as they made their way down the eastern slope. I smiled and went inside to prepare for the thunderstorm. I adored them as they didn’t make it past the mountains most days. They came and wiped my slate clean.


As it poured through the night, the thunder rattled the house. I lie awake cherishing the sounds. Just then something startled me. I jumped out of bed and waited to hear it again. Then three loud bangs pounded at my door. Nobody ever came here. No one ever knocked or visited. I was all alone out here. Or so I thought. I covered my naked bosom and ran down the stairs. I ran to the window to see what poor soul was rapping at my door on a night like this. A man in a tattered jacket, faded jeans, and boots worn thin at the toe. I rushed to the door to find him walking around the corner. 

  “Hello There!” I called. I didn’t know if I could trust him but I couldn’t just leave him.

  “Oh thank God!” He cried. 

  “Come in! You poor man. What the hell are you doing out there?” I asked. A foul stench wafted in the room as he passed through the doorway. He ran his fingers through his wet, jet black hair. 

  “I’ve been walking for days.” He said, short on breath.

  “From which direction? Not through the desert I hope? There’s nothing out there for a hundred miles.” I proclaimed. 

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Oh dear, let me get you some coffee and food. Please take a seat.” I motioned to my Native American motif seats.

  “Oh, water if you would be so kind.” I threw eggs and ham on the stove and he began to tell me the story of his incredible journey.  

“It started here, in Colorado. I loved it but something was missing. Something intangible. So I decided to travel Europe. People do that all the time, right? Fun, but couldn’t find was I looking for. So I traveled down into the Middle East. Beautiful people. Nothing like the media tells you.” He went on through the night with amazing stories. Africa, Russia, China, Japan. Stories of philanthropy, spirituality, and discovery. After a couple years he made it to a Buddhist temple in Tibet. 


  “I asked the monks why I had looked all over the world and hadn’t found what I was looking for. He asked me what I was looking for and I couldn’t answer him. ‘I don’t know, I feel lost.’ He says to me ‘Not all who wander are lost. What you seek will only be found in your beautiful curiosity, but remember that everyone needs a place to rest their head.’ He was right, but there was more to see so I flew to the south of Argentina and made it all the way up here.  I snuck across the border to Arizona and hitchhiked into Colorado. I got dropped off at the sand dunes but got turned around. Which brings me here.” He raised his arms in motion to my cabin. I just stared blankly at him, amazed.

  He slept in the attic that night and left in the morning. I pointed him in the direction of a small town he could get supply and ride. As I watched him walk off to the northeast I couldn’t help but envy him, my antithesis. I looked up to find the attic light still on. His shadow imprinted on the walls.


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## midnightpoet (Dec 13, 2013)

Ice (645 words)


It was after dark when Roger came home, and the house was dark also, until he saw the light in the attic.  By the time he reached the attic stair he recognized the rotten-egg smell of bad meth.  Jane was sitting on a worn-out couch, smoking Ice.  The floor was littered with empty beer cans, discarded needles, half-smoked cigarettes, and drug pipes. Other smells crowded the room, as apparently she had peed on the couch. The cramped space of the attic made him feel like he was choking. 

He had met Jane in a drug treatment self-help group, and he had fallen hard for her.  They had been together for six months when she became pregnant, but she had lost the child.  It was strange now, as he remembered how much both of them wanted children.  They even talked about marriage, but lately Jane had been detached, distant at times.  Now he knew why.

His prior relationship had ended badly, and he had gone to jail for assault.  He had done it in a drunken, drug-induced stupor, but his lawyer convinced the judge that therapy would be for the best .  The drug treatment program had been part of his sentence. Jane herself had problems stemming from a broken home filled with abuse. 

“What happened, Jane?  Why did you go back to this shit?  You promised me, remember?”  

She took a puff and inhaled deeply.  “Go away and leave me alone.”

Roger felt his anger rising.  He couldn’t believe this was the same woman with whom he fell in love.  He remembered his own addiction, but he had beaten it, why couldn’t she?  They did have some good memories.  The first few months they both were clean and in love seemed like years ago now and his impatience with her grew with each minute.

“It’s my house.  I grew up in it, and I used this attic to play in.  You’ve ruined all my good memories.  Damn it, I love you.”

He felt his eyes swell with tears.   

“Since we’ve been together, you’ve scared me several times.  You could use something to mellow you out.”  She paused, taking a few more puffs.   “I was bored, I guess.  But I realized how good it made me feel.”

Roger remembered that he still hadn’t completely controlled his temper.  He stared at her, listening to the patter of rain on the roof, which darkened his mood even more.  He wanted to say something, but he really didn’t think it would do any good.  Something within him began to unravel.  He left and drove to a liquor store, where he bought a six pack of beer and two bottles of cheap whiskey.  When he got back home, he sat in the kitchen.  He started with the beer.  It tasted like piss, but he kept drinking.  He didn’t even realize it when he cracked the first whiskey. An hour later, he realized he had emptied the bottle.  This was too much.  With each drink, he felt his anger and frustration rising.  He returned to the attic.  She had passed out on the couch.  He went to the garage and came back with a hammer, and proceeded to smash every ice pipe, needle, and whatever bag of drugs he could find.

The noise woke Jane up.

“What the hell?  Roger, stop that.  Now.”

 “Why are you doing this?” Roger asked, and his anger jumped another notch.  “Was it the miscarriage?  Were you depressed?”

She laughed at him.

“Miscarriage?  Shit, that was an abortion.  I didn’t want to tell you I didn’t want your damn kid.”

“YOU DID WHAT?  YOU KILLED OUR CHILD?”

Her expression was blank, no emotion.

“Yeah, you son of a bitch, and I’ve decided I don’t want you either.”

Minutes later, he dropped the blood-soaked hammer on the floor, went downstairs and walked out into the rain.


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## Guy Faukes (Dec 13, 2013)

*A Story of Santa: Into the Shadows*

*A Story of Santa: Into the Shadows*​​
“Hey Santa… I brought you a tray of milk and cookies. You should eat them now while they’re still warm.” said Little Timmy as he popped his head up into the candlelit attic.

“Ho ho ho! Why thank you, Timmy!” said Santa heartily.

The jolly old man laid on a worn out recliner, wrapped under many blankets with an IV snaking out from underneath. His was hat laid out on boxes of childhood; his broken glasses mended with a bead of tape around the nose, while a tan-leather eye patch shielded his left eye. Somewhere, lodged underneath his temporal lobe was a couple of grams of lead.

“Can I get anything else to make you feel better?” asked Timmy in his PJs, as he handed off the goodies to the council of elves.

“Oh, no Timmy, you’ve done enough!”

“Okay Santa. Goodnight!” said Timmy, ducking back downstairs and closing the attic door behind him.

Santa sighed.

“I did what I believed was right… to spread boundless cheer and happiness to children around the globe…. at least the Christian ones…” he said as he took a draught of chilled, unpasteurized milk and bit into a hazelnut and caramel cookie that crumbled just right. “I had forgotten… no… I chose to forget the intentions of the Claus Foundation when they placed me into this role.”

“I hate to break it to you, but the situation is changing fast, Santa. The workshops are still runnin’ 24-7, but they aren’t making the same toys. Snowflake is on the inside. She said they’re making the 1800s model toys… you know, the spring loaded, wooden ones. And they installed a new Santa. He goes by your old name… Sinterklaas, with the green suit and everything.” said Jack, the elf.

“He’s pulled out the old jute bags for the naughty kids.” said Elfie beside him.

“From our cyberattacks on their network, the Foundation are starting a new holiday called ‘New Christmas’, with a re-education campaign in tow.” said Fred.

Santa sighed again, settling deeper into his layers. He stared outside the small, snow laden window to a flurried night outside.

Then there was a knock on the attic door.

“We have the package.” said an elf.

“Bring it in.” said Jack.

Two elves dragged in a blue man with silvered hair, visibly bruised, and hunched over.

“You wanted him alive, Santa?” said one of the elves.

“Yes… bring him to me.”

“Well, well, well… I wasn’t-” said Jack Frost before an elf drove a pointed boot into his ribs. 

“No, you weren’t…” said Charlie, the other elf.

“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Frost. First, you tried to kill me, then you informed the Claus Foundation prematurely of my death. Now, they think they have carte blanche with me out of the picture. But… I’m still plump and jolly. You made a mess, Frost, and we both know how they deal with messes.” said Santa, raising a razor.

He slid it across his own chin, hemming off his beard.

“So, be a good boy... give them this.”

Frost sat in silence as the hair piled in front of him.

“You work for me now, Frost.” said Santa.

“Bring him to a sled.”

​---​
“Come on…” said Charlie as he dragged Frost through the backyard sow. 

“Charlie… right? You were with me during the hit… you didn’t do anything then, so why are you helping the Jolly, Fat Man now?” said Frost.

“Shut up.” Said Charlie, pushing Frost into the sled. Frost grimaced for a moment before straightening himself up, tugging on the reigns, and waving off into the flurried night.

“You’re right…” said Charlie as the sled disappeared, “I failed him that night…”

He held a GPS in one hand, a detonator with the other, and gazed at the gift-wrapped C4 strapped to the bottom of the sled. 

“So… I’ll fix this all for him... tonight.”​


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## J Anfinson (Dec 15, 2013)

*When I Loved You the Most (Judge Entry)*

When I Loved You the Most (Judge Entry)


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## Fin (Dec 17, 2013)

*The Light
Anonymous Entry
Language Warning​*

“Shut the window, Eddie. You’re letting all the damn heat out,” he said, his voice straining. Eddie just sat there looking at me, like always, confused. My little brother, Eddie, never spoke. Couldn’t go to school, couldn’t be trusted around girls nor animals. I slid the window down. The latch was frozen open, so I just stood there staring at Eddie until he turned away from the window and back toward his game. 


“I got it, Dad,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t come upstairs like last time, when he threw Eddie against the wall and wrecked his game. I crouched down beside Eddie. He didn’t look up at me, even when I poked him in the cheek. He just sat there with the resignation of a native washwoman, running his hands over the pile of plastic blocks, again and again as if he would stoke a fire of construction from the random chaos of pieces. “Ed, you okay? Having a bad day again?” I asked, wondering what was behind those glassy eyes. “Well, shit buddy. I have to go,” I said, “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Don’t piss dad off again. Keep the light on, and don’t open the damn window.” I slid down the steep ladder and folded it back into place. 


Dad was sitting in his recliner, like usual. He could tell when Eddie had the window open, but couldn’t tell he had food stains all down his shirt and a spilled glass of liquor on his TV tray. With great effort, he flopped his head over to look at me. The red eyes and stubble defined him in my mind more than his strong arms and big hands that were like bench-top vises. The squeeze of his hands felt like a dog bite, but stronger and more urgent. He opened his mouth to slur something at me, but the thought went out of him and he tilted his head back toward the television. “Dad, I’ll be back in a bit. I need to get us some dinner.” 


Dad grunted at me, and barely got the words out, “Bring me something back.” I looked down at the floor and thought about our mother and her broken face. 


“Okay.” I closed the door and walked through the snow to my car. Most of my friends were enjoying their new-found freedom, but having a car and license only meant a burden for me. Getting food, getting Ed to his doctor, bringing Dad along so he could buy liquor and cash his check every month. The car groaned at the cold, but started on the third try. I rubbed my hands together and blew on them, waiting for the windshield to clear. From the back driveway, I could see Eddie’s light. Since I’d put him up there, he hadn’t been punched, best I could tell, and Dad couldn’t climb the ladder to mess with him. Eddie always wanted that window open, no matter the cold. 


The streets were empty, and the wind rocked the Camry on its suspension. I bought our dinner, a bottle of sleeping pills, and a magazine for Eddie with my last twenty bucks in food stamps, and pocketed a pint of Jim Beam on my way out. The old checkout lady smiled at me and I looked away. 


The snow crunched under the tires as I eased back in our driveway. Eddie’s light was still on, but the window was open. “Shit,” I said, and rushed inside and dropped my things. In the living room, Dad’s chair was empty. At the top of the stairs, down the hallway, Eddie’s attic ladder was down. Dad lay there, his leg twisted up in the ladder and blood pooled around his head where he’d bashed it on the dresser. I climbed over him and up into the attic, but Eddie wasn’t there.


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## Euripides (Dec 17, 2013)

Of Boys Imagination (647 Words)


“For Pete’s sake Billy, get off! You’re breathing on me!” John slung back his elbow jabbing Billy hard in the pit of his stomach.

A whoosh of breath, then Billy whispered, “Dang it John, that hurt, move over!”

John scooted as far as the little cave made by the overburdened lilac branches would allow.  Just enough space to fit them both, it was a tight squeeze for the two 10 year old boys.  But camouflaged by the greenery, they could spy on the house across the street. 

John cast a look back at his own house through the leaves and browning flower heads.  He hoped his dad wouldn’t go check on him, or come out on the front porch for a cigar.  Hiding mere feet from the porch swing, any little noise and his dad would know he and Billy were in the bushes.  He was supposed to be in bed, at least that’s where his mom sent him 30 minutes ago.  But when John heard the call of a hoot owl three times, followed by the squeal of what sounded like a dying rabbit but was supposed to be a nighthawk, he snuck out his window and down the jasmine trellis.

John thought Billy needed to work on his bird calls.  How embarrassing to a have a secret signal that sounded like a squealing rabbit.

Instead he whispered, “Did you bring it?”

“Yep, got it right here.” From under his shirt, Billy pulled a foot-long red and white plastic telescope.  It was their shared treasure, purchased by painstakingly collecting Bazooka Bubble Gum Wrappers. They had each chipped in two bits for shipping from the allowances they got for doing chores. This week it was Billy’s turn to keep the telescope.

John handed Billy one of the two molasses cookies he swiped from under his mother’s nose. Billy happily exchanged the cookie for the telescope, "Here, take a look at the window.”

John put the spyglass to right eye to peer at the dilapidated white house across the street. Peeling paint, sagging stairs, a porch swing that squeaked in the wind, and overgrown hydrangea bushes added to the menacing air that cloaked the house. A crotchety old man with a stooped back lived there.  He often yelled and shook his fist at kids riding bikes on the street in front of his house.

Billy’s older sister Janice told them that once a month, a sliver of light could be seen escaping from between the black curtains covering the attic window.  She said he was someone named Rasputin, and he cursed people. Janice was also sure he ate mice, killed cats and targeted little boys.  They thought this silly until Janice reminded them of Mrs. Greene’s cat that went missing last month, and the neighborhood boy, Edward, who stopped going to school a couple of days later. Billy’s mom said Edward was in the hospital from polio, not from anything Mr. Jensen did. But Janice, with the authority of a teenage girl just sniffed, “That’s what the adults want us to believe.”

Convinced the old man was up to no good, they were determined to spy on the house whenever the light in the attic was on. John peered at the window through the spyglass, and saw only a shadow moving across the light, dimming it briefly.

“Anything?” asked Billy eyeing the second cookie.

“No, just movement. What's he up to?”

“Beats me. Probably cursing Peter for stepping on his grass yesterday.”

John’s eyes widened and the boys whispered furiously.

****

Upstairs in his attic, unaware of the horrors being heaped upon the poor unsuspecting Peter, Mr. Jensen played an old vinyl record of “I’ll See You in My Dreams.” He gazed at a faded sepia picture of a smiling young couple and touched the face of the young woman in the picture, tears rolling down his cheeks.


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## Foxee (Dec 17, 2013)

*A Light in the Attic*


_Based on a news story I read years ago. The prompt brought it back like I'd read it yesterday._ _-Foxee_


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