Wyldblood: Science Fiction and Fantasy

‘Twas the Week Before Christmas

Karl Dandenell

A full length seasonal short story

’Twas the week before Christmas, and I wasn’t stirring. I was getting right pissed.

The Joint was the oldest, cheapest bar in Watertown, New York. People minded their own business and simply drank. I liked that. Everything was smoke-stained and faded: the wallpaper, the vinyl booths, the barstools. Even the neon on the Schlitz beer sign pushed out a tired glow. And forget about music: there was neither jukebox nor radio. Nothing but low conversation and rumination.

 Tonight my thoughts were focused on the Veil, and how I hated being on this side of it, especially in December. Pushing through snow drifts when you’re three feet tall was a royal pain in the arse. “Frank,” I said, tapping my empty glass. “Two fingers if you please.”

“He means a shot,” said the soldier to my left. “Two fingers is barely a thimble with your tiny hands, Santa’s Little Helper.” He smirked at his companions, who drunkenly giggled at his witticism. With their freshly pressed uniforms and buzz cuts, I guessed they were recently minted Fort Drum recruits, enjoying a last hurrah before Korea.

Even standing atop my barstool, I barely reached the other men’s chins. The sheer fog of Burma Shave rolling off them made my eyes water. Definitely fresh meat from boot camp. “What’s your name, boy?” I said, flipping my red hat’s long tassel over my shoulder.

“Mike Harrison. What’s it to you?”

“Well, Private Michael Harrison,” I said, “Frank here understands both vernacular and context, so he is unlikely to give me the wrong pour based on my physiology. An arse like you, on the other hand, might require explicit directions when it comes to filling a glass.”

Harrison slowly parsed the sentence and frowned. “You’ve got a big mouth there, shorty. Be careful someone doesn’t shut it for you.”

“Hey, hey, don’t need no trouble tonight, Pádraig.” Frank cracked open a new bottle of Jameson’s, topping off my glass. “There you go.” His voice held the confidence and calm of a man with two sawed-off shotguns in easy reach.

“Sláinte.” I tossed back the whiskey. Water of life. Days like this I wanted to drown.

The bartender turned to Harrison. “What are you drinking, son?”

“Rheingold. In a bottle.”

“I could never bring myself to drink beer that looked the same coming and going.” Pulling a quarter from my waistcoat, I rolled it across my knuckles. “However, to each his own. And seeing how it’s nearly Christmas, let me stand you a drink.”

“What about my squad-mates?”

“The more, the merrier. Can’t imagine you’ll be getting much Rheingold around Pusan.” I stacked a few coins on the bar and climbed down my stool with care, mindful of my balance. Even with my constitution, six drinks was pushing it. “I’m off, Frank, before the snow starts. No rest for the wicked in the Bey & Thomas toy department, leastways not ’til Sunday.” I headed for the door, paused, and belted out in my strong tenor:

Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!

On Comet! On Cupid! On Donder and Blixen!

Once outside, I buttoned up my wool coat, pulled on my gloves, and hunkered down in the alley, becoming just another shadow cast by the old iron streetlamp.

Fat, wet flakes drifted down. I shifted a bit, wishing I had of those fancy Thermos bottles from the kitchen department right about then. A swallow of tea or even watery American coffee would be welcome. Still, this was nothing compared to Boston last January. I shivered with the memory.

I’d nearly frozen my bollocks off hiding in the river while St. Nick’s agents combed the shore looking for free leprechauns like my Whelan and me. I hoped my nephew had gotten away, even if the kid’s stupid mouth had cost us half our score. What could I do? When my sister lay on her deathbed, I swore I’d keep an eye on the boy. His father had already been taken by the elves, may they choke on lumps of coal.

An hour later, the bar disgorged Harrison and his squad of wannabe Audie Murphys. I grinned and whispered a charm. Not the best idea, perhaps, but I was cold and stiff and still a little buzzed. Besides, it was just a wee phantasm of greasy hamburgers and fries.

Harrison stopped and sniffed the air while the other soldiers headed toward the bus stop. “I’ll catch you guys back at base.” Then he turned down the alley toward an all-night diner. As soon as the sidewalk cleared, I emerged from the shadows. “Someone’s been a naughty boy,” I whispered, and slammed into Harrison’s knees.

The soldier managed a girlish shriek as he tumbled into the gritty snow. I clamped a hand on his nose and mouth and showed him the six-inch obsidian blade I’d picked up in New York after some punks mugged me at the docks. Cold steel gave me the collywobbles but flaked stone bothered me not a whit. And it was sharp as a surgeon’s blade.

“It’s a big mouth you got there, sir, and you’d be wise to keep it shut. Blink twice if you understand.”

He nodded, flinching as the knife nicked him.

“I said blink, ya eejit.” I shook my head. “Let’s get something straight, okay? I’m a leprechaun, not an elf. Just because I’m dressed like some poxy Christmas helper doesn’t mean I’m one of them. Not even close. Got it?”

Harrison blinked. Twice.

“You’re learning. Good.” Keeping the knife in place, I searched his pockets with my free hand, coming up with a wallet. I flipped it open to his driver’s license. “Come up from Hoboken, I see.”

“Take my money,” Harrison whispered. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Boy, I don’t make widows for five dollars and a bus ticket. But I’ll have that wedding ring.”

“Please. It belonged to my grandfather.”

“And now it belongs to me,” I said, wiggling the knife. “Now give it over. Please.”

He worked the ring off, slowly. I put it between my teeth.

“That’s some fine quality gold, that is,” I said, tucking it away. “Now, what are we going to do with you?” As a rule, I never killed anyone unless my back was against the wall. And Harrison wasn’t a threat—the way he winced when he moved his leg told me he’d probably twisted something. Poor kid. Just a stupid boy who got schooled for mouthing off in a bar. We’ve all been there.

He flinched when I kissed him on the cheek. “There! All you have to do is lay there nice and quiet while I go on my way. May the road rise up to meet you.”

 With a kick, I launched myself, landed on my toes, and performed a bow worthy of Queen Tatiana’s court. “Merry Christmas, Private Harrison!” Then I strolled away, whistling the opening bars of “The Wild Rover.”

The next morning, I rose late from my cot, the metal frame creaking like an old man’s bones. I tip-toed across the cold wood floor to the cupboard and retrieved the ceramic cookie jar I’d secreted behind a loose board. The jar was the color of melted butter and shaped like a fat chef, complete with toque blanc lid.

Harrison’s wedding ring joined my stash of Double Eagles, Spanish doubloons, and Mexican gold pesos that I’d acquired in trade for watches, lockets, and other precious things.

I scooped my hands into the jar and let the coins drip through my fingers. Close. So close. Almost enough to bribe the dwarves who guarded Queen Tatiana’s borders. Bring us two stones’ weight of gold, they’d said. And we won’t turn you over to the elves.

Two stones! That’s robbery, pure and simple! I’d sputtered and cursed, while they leaned on their pickaxes and waited for me to run out of breath.

Two stones, leprechaun, repeated the older dwarf, before chucking me into a nearby bramble.

Saint Nick was putting the squeeze on everyone, it seemed.

I clanked the toque blanc back on the chef’s head. The week before, when I was returning from a late night walk (and some light pickpocketing), I’d detoured through an empty lot and paid a visit to the old Hawthorne trees behind my boarding house. I’d once asked the landlady, Mrs. MacDiarmada, about the lot. She thought it the remains of some house that had burned down before the war. I knew different. It was a wild place, kept that way by my people. When I placed my hands on one of the Hawthorne trunks, I heard it sleeping, dreaming of spring. With the next full moon came round in a week, I was sure I could easily sing the trees awake and open a passage through the Veil.

And a good thing, too. Elves were nearing Watertown. I couldn’t smell them, but I felt them. Pins and needles in my toes. A dryness in the throat. And dreams. Dreams of crawling across ice fields, chased by wolf howls and laughter.

For years, I’d crossed the Veil to pursue my mischief in the Irish countryside, as one does, but when that puffed-up bastard St. Nick needed magical labor for his North Pole factories, he sent his elves to snatch up any leprechaun, pixie, or gnome who ventured outside Queen Tatiana’s realm. Santa was determined to slake the human children’s growing hunger for toys at any cost.

Between elvish scouts and corrupt dwarves, I was cut off from home. Like many of my fellow fae, I’d chosen to flee the island.

I took jobs where I could, mainly working the carnival circuits and Christmas displays in tight-ass little towns across England and America, slowing gathering my stake so I could bribe my way back.

Damn dwarves. May their beards fall out in the middle of their supper.

On this side of the Veil, fae magic was barely strong enough to influence slow-witted human folk. And if we tried anything more than a minor cantrip, elvish hunting parties would come running, stinking of cloves and cardamon. So fae moved often and generally avoided each other, lest word get back to Santa.

But I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder much longer. I was short maybe two hundred coins, a month’s work if I set my mind to it. Once I had that gold, I’d show the human realm my backside. Let someone else steal their chickens or sour the milk. Nothing on this side of the Veil was worth getting chained to a workbench, making dolls and wooden trains for him.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs. I quickly hid the cookie jar and put on a robe I’d stolen from the children’s department. Navy blue terrycloth.

There was a knock. “Are you decent, Mr. Lynch?”

I raised my voice, mindful of my landlady’s poor hearing. “I am more than decent, Mrs. MacDiarmada. I am excellent!”

The door opened, admitting a very thin, very bent-over woman whose white hair was done up in a tight bun. Her apron of white and yellow daisies was ironed within an inch of its life. “You make me laugh, Mr. Lynch.” She handed me a cup of strong tea and a plate with toast cut into triangles. “I was making myself breakfast and thought you might like a cuppa.”

“You’re a blessing, you are.” I set the dishes on the end table that served as my coffee table. “Oh. As long as you’re here, I have the rent.” I snapped my fingers, producing a fan of dollar bills.

“It’s not due for another week, Mr. Lynch. Still, I won’t say no.” The money disappeared into the daisy field.

I slurped my tea. “I hope to be visiting family for the holidays.” And never coming back.

“Good for you. Though I imagine the toy department will be frightfully busy until the last minute.”

“Every day is busy day for a Santa’s Helper,” I said. “Speaking of which, I really should finish this lovely meal and catch my bus.”

“Then I won’t keep you,” said Mrs. MacDiarmada. She picked up the newspaper from the floor and shuffled toward the trash. “Oh, you had a visitor yesterday. I meant to tell you but I was asleep by the time you came home.”

“Mmmm?” I said around a mouthful of toast.

“He said he was a nephew of yours from Sligo. Or was it Cork? Anyway, I told him you were working and he should come back later. Didn’t think it proper to have him wait here by himself.”

“Not proper at all.” Sudden sweat trickled down my ribs. “Did he give his name?”

“I’m sure he did, but for the life of me I can’t remember.” She dropped the newspaper in the waste basket. “He certainly looked like a relation.”

“Another handsome gentleman with green eyes?”

“Listen to you, Mr. Lynch. I mean he was round and not particularly tall. Like yourself.” She turned to go.

“Thank you, Mrs. MacDiarmada.” I closed the door behind her and coughed against a piece of bread stuck in my throat. “Well, bugger.”

I was rushing out of the house, pulling up my green tights when I spied a bright red envelope tucked under the mat. The front was blank except for my name written in block letters. Inside, I found a Norman Rockwell “Home for Christmas” card and a short message:

I think the Red Coats are in town. Can we meet?

—W

Whelan! I scanned the street but saw only Mr. Jenkins scraping the ice from the windshield of his Ford Mainline wagon.

I stuffed the card into my coat and bolted for the bus stop, heedless of the icy sidewalk. Fortunately for me, the bus was running late, and I found a seat by the back door. Every time we stopped to pick up passengers, I gripped my knife tightly, alert to anyone wearing hand-stitched red coats or white fur collars. Fecking elves. And fecking Whelan – he always did have the worst timing.

On the other hand, another set of hands might be useful right about now.

My thoughts were interrupted by a small boy in the seat in front of me, who stuck out his tongue, then tried to engage me in a staring contest. I produced a candy cane. “May I, ma’am?” I asked the women sitting next to the boy. She looked up from her knitting, took in my costume, and nodded.

“I hope you’ve been good this year, boy,” I said, handing over the candy. “Because Santa,” I whispered, “can be really horrid when he wants to be.”

I got off at the next stop.

“Looks like a good crowd today,” said Phil, strapping on an extra-large pillow. He was thinner than the last Santa, and smelled of onions and vodka.

“Yeah, sure.” I fiddled with my itchy fake ears, tucking the wire frame under my hat. Some petty part of me wanted to leave them in my locker and replace them with a proper glamour. With elves nearby, though, I needed to control those impulses. Magic attracts magic, as the saying goes. I’d gotten lucky with that charm in the alley. “Hey, Phil, be a good soul and loan us your flask.”

“Tough night, eh?” He rummaged around his locker.

“Tough morning.” The vodka was as harsh as expected. Even though Bey & Thomas paid the seasonal staff a decent wage, we wouldn’t get our final checks (and the promised bonuses) until December 26, and Phil was probably skating along on nickels from the tip jar. “Cheers, mate.” I took a second pull and returned the flask. Then I pushed my hat down firmly and stuck a candy cane in the corner of my mouth. “Time to make some memories, fat man.”

On a normal day, I’d stand at the front of the queue, chatting with mothers and fathers, quietly shepherding the children onto Santa’s lap or over to the Santa’s Workshop photo booth.

Today, though, I didn’t say much. My thoughts churned between those damn elves and Tatiana’s crooked border guards. Caught between the devil and deep blue sea, I was.

“Come on, Patrick, show us the happy elf!” said the photographer.

My expression was more grim than grin but the photographer snapped anyway.

Then it was back to the queue, the children excited and tired, frightened or nose-running sick. We finally got a break when Phil decided Santa needed a smoke. I put up the Feeding the reindeer—back in a few minutes sign, and we parked themselves on the back stairs. Phil lit up a king-size Chesterfield and offered me one.

“More of a pipe man, myself,” I said with a shake of my head. “Phil, can I ask you something?”

“Sure thing.”

“If you needed money in a hurry, say, a lot of money, what would you do?”

“I’d play the ponies.” Phil flicked ash from his beard. “You can make a good score on the Daily Double if you’re lucky.”

“My luck hasn’t been good lately,” I said. And throwing down a strength charm on a racehorse would be like lighting a signal fire for any hunters.

Phil took a final drag. “There’s always the pawn shop on Oak Street. They pay less but don’t ask questions.”

“I’ve already sold everything I can.” Including the silver candlesticks I’d found in the back of Mrs. MacDiarmada’s closet.

“Well, as my ex-wife used to say, if you can’t pay the bill, make friends with someone who can.” The Chesterfield became a shooting star down the stairwell. “Back to the North Pole.”

As soon as my shift was over, I grabbed my coat and headed down the escalator, taking the opportunity to jostle a well-dressed woman holding a stack of brightly wrapped packages. I apologized profusely and helped her to a nearby chair. Then, with further apologies, I collected her scattered boxes. The floor manager, Mr. Peavey, brought her a paper cup of water. I used the distraction to liberate the woman’s billfold from her Kelly bag. Every bit helped.

The biting wind nearly tore my knit hat off as I cleared the revolving doors. When I reached the corner, I tracked a huge mass of storm clouds pushing their way from the east. This cheered me: a good dose of sleet might obscure my trail.

A prickle like tiny mice feet ran down my back. I casually turned in a circle, searching the shadows. After a moment, I spied a familiar figure huddled behind the newspaper stand.

“Whelan!”

The leprechaun who stood up wore a stained overcoat missing several buttons. It flapped in the wind, exposing the cheap wool suit underneath. He offered me a chilly hand to shake. “Well met, uncle. You get my card?”

“Aye,” I said. “How’d you track me down?”

“I remembered you mentioning Watertown a few years back, and it didn’t take long to find a boarding house run by an Irish grandmother,” said Whelan. “Getting a wee predictable in your old age.”

 “And yet I’m still here. What can I do for you, ya little shite?” He wasn’t that much shorter than me, but he was a few decades younger.

“I need a place to lay low. Two North Pole bastards almost netted me in Buffalo not a fortnight ago. Only stayed ahead of them by hitching a ride on the back of a vegetable truck. Ate nothing but turnips and carrots for two days.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Wasn’t so bad,” said Whelan. “The bed was open to the sky, and I could smell the farms as we passed. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I was back home, tying the goats’ tails together with invisible twine.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “You think they followed you?”

He blew on his hands. His gloves were torn and dirty. “They’re close, uncle. I can feel it in my bones.” He fixed an eye on me. “Bet you can, too.”

“A bit,” I admitted. More than I liked. “Come on, best we don’t dally.” I pointed to an approaching streetcar and we jumped on after the other passengers, worming our way past packages and bulging shopping bags.

Whelan put his head close and switched to Gaelic. “I wouldn’t impose on you if it weren’t serious, Pádraig. You know that.”

“It’s always serious,” I responded in the same language. “What do you need?”

“Just a place to catch my breath. Swear on my mother.”

“Uh, uh. And if I happen to have a few coins to spare, you wouldn’t say no,” I said.

Whelan padded his breast. I heard the soft jingle of coins. “I’m doing all right, thank you. But I could always use a little local currency. Conductors can’t make change for a sovereign.”

“Here.” I passed over a twenty I’d acquired from the Bey & Thomas customer. “That will get you a ticket someplace warmer.”

“You’re a blessing.” He stuffed the bill into a shirt pocket. “You know, until just recently, I was getting together a big stake. Truth be told.”

I sighed. “What happened this time?”

He frowned. “I bought my way into a regular dice game in Brooklyn. Kept coming back every week, winning a little, losing a little. Then one night some flashy fellow in a blue-striped Zoot suit starts throwing down bundles of cash like he’d robbed a bank and couldn’t wait to spend it.”

“And you decided to improve your luck,” I said.

“Just a little. A nudge. Then the money got so big I couldn’t help myself. I hit it with everything I had and came up three sevens in a row.” He rubbed his nose. “Before I could count the pot, the elves dropped through the skylight like it was someone’s chimney on the 24th. Everybody thought it was the peelers, and Mr. Zoot pulled out a horrible great pistol. Everyone grabbed for the cash and I had to bust out a window to get away.”

“That’s rough,” I said. “But you brought it on yourself, you eejit.”

“I know. I know.”

I put an arm around him. As much as Whelan frustrated me at times, I had to admit it was good to see family. “Are you hungry?”

“I could eat cold soup without a spoon.”

“I think we can do better than that,” I said.

The sleet had begun in earnest by the time we reached the house.

“Mrs. MacDiarmada?”

There was no answer. Perhaps she was out doing her last-minute shopping, buying toys for her grandchildren. I wondered how she’d feel if she knew those colorful toys were churned out by imprisoned fae?

“Wait in the sitting room,” I said. “Keep your feet off the furniture.” Everything was covered in crocheted blankets.

I stole upstairs and retrieved my cookie jar, wrapping it in my terrycloth robe and tying it all into a neat bindle. I wanted to be ready in case Whelan went along with my plan.

The wind sounded like wolves.

When I came downstairs, I found him spreading his coat over the radiator. “Nice place.”

“Keeps me dry,” I said. I set my bindle on the couch. “Why don’t you rest a moment while I make us some sandwiches. I think there’s roast beef leftover from Sunday.”

“Sounds grand.”

I went to the kitchen, put out a couple of plates, and piled them with slices of cold meat, cheese, and bread. I filled the kettle and set it on the white porcelain stove to boil. The gas was fussy, as usual. As I was lighting my third match, I felt a twinge of familiar magic, like someone tugging at my ear.

I slipped back into the hallway and peered into the sitting room. Whelan was sitting in the dark, his feet on the sofa. “Did you hear anything?”

“Nothing but the wind.” He retrieved his coat and put it on.

“Come on, then, let’s eat.” I took my bindle to the kitchen and set it next to the table. The bathrobe had definitely been re-tied. And was it lighter?

 Whelan tucked in without ceremony. I took a few bites, my appetite suddenly gone.

“Nephew,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I’m tired of this. Aren’t you?”

He wiped his mouth on a kitchen towel. “What?”

“This,” I said. “Putting a stake together. Every time one of us gets close to having enough gold, the elves almost catch us and we have to leave it behind, or we lose it in a craps game, or someone straight up grifts us, like that pixie in Canada.”

He tried hard not to look at my bindle, but I saw his glance. “Yeah, she pulled the wool over our eyes, she did.”

“I think it’s time to pool our resources,” I said. “Give me your gold.”

“What?” he said. “If this is your idea of hospitality, I’ll find somewhere else to hide.” He climbed out of this chair.

“Whelan, sit down.”

“I’ll stand, thank you.”

“Then at least listen,” I said. “If you loan me your gold, I’ll have enough to pay the bribe and then—.”

“Then I’ll be stuck here, only poorer. No, thank you, Pádraig. I’m sorry about Boston but I’ll not dance to this tune.”

“Whelan,” I spoke quietly. “I know what you did in the sitting room.”

“So I put my feet on the furniture, big deal!”

“I’ve known you since you were born, ya gobshite,” I said, setting the bindle on the table. With a twist, I untied the robe. Under the chef’s toque blanc lay a double handful of lead subway tokens. “You think I wouldn’t recognize one of your charms?”

“I was desperate, Pádraig,” he said with a sniff. “I haven’t see home in so long, I can barely dream about it.”

I nodded. “I know the feeling. But we’re leprechauns. We don’t steal from family.” I scooped out the tokens and held out my hand. Whelan rolled up his pants, revealing two heavy wool socks tied outside his garters. With a hangdog expression, he emptied their contents into the cookie jar: gold coins and Harrison’s wedding ring.

“Now,” I said, “if you give me the rest, you’ll be home in eight days.”

He frowned and crossed his arms. “How?”

“Once I cross the Veil, I’ll take two stones’ worth of gold from my own stash and wait for you at the border. Just make sure you come through the same place I do. Otherwise, we might miss each other.”

He considered it. “I don’t know. Why do I have to wait eight days?”

“It’ll be December 26,” I said. “The Red Coats will be home and you can open the Veil without worry.”

“Swear it, Pádraig.” Whelan spit in his palm. “Swear on Queen Titania.”

“I swear.” I spit in my own palm and grasped his. “Long may She reign.”

Whelan wiped his hand on his trousers, then pulled a kerchief from his pocket. Inside lay a thin gold bar. “Will this be enough?”

I hefted the bar and nodded. Just enough. “Follow me.”

We headed out the back door.

“Once I’m gone, get yourself over to The Joint and ask for Frank.” I told him the address. “Give him that twenty and tell him you want to rent your uncle’s old room. It’s not much—just a cot in a storeroom—but no one will bother you.”

The wind abruptly shifted direction, and moonlight stabbed down through an opening in the clouds. The air grew colder and I smelled cinnamon and cloves. Oh no.

“Run!” I took off, the bindle banging against my back. I crossed the street and ran for the Hawthorne ring, Whelan hard on my heels.

“What?!

“The elves must have been closer than we thought,” I said, puffing.

We reached the trees. “Was it my charm? Did they sense it?” said Whelan.

“Yes.” I shut my eyes and spoke the ancient words, willing the tree to wake.

“Pádraig!”

“I know!” There. The Veil opened. On the other side, a young sika hind pawed at the dirt, its white spots glowing in the moonlight. I turned, and my grin crashed when I saw Whelan staring through the Veil. Tears coursed down his cheeks.

In that moment, I knew. I knew in my bones he wouldn’t make it. After I left, he’d just stand there, gawping, transfixed by the site of home.

And the elves would snatch him up and take him to the North Pole, just like his father.

Someone approached from the opposite direction, crying rage and fury. I heaved my bindle to Whelan. “Here. Take it and go!”

His caught it, barely. “But—“

“And if you’re not there waiting for me next week, well, you’ll wish you’d never been born. Go!”

Whelan put a foot into the circle. “I’ll be there, uncle, I swear. Thank you! Thank you! I’m sorry!” In two steps he was gone.

“Eejit.” I ran. Harder than a deer chased by hounds, I ran toward The Joint and Frank’s shotguns, the hunters close behind me. That’d be a fine surprise for them.

Even if I didn’t make it, I still had my knife. If the elves wanted me, it would cost them more than gold.

I ran.

Karl Dandenell is a graduate of Viable Paradise and a Full Member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. He and his family, plus their feline overlords, live on an island near San Francisco famous for its Victorian architecture and low-speed traffic. Karl has published over 50 works of short fiction in the United States, Canada, and Great Britain. Follow his occasional posts @karldandenell.bsky.social and read more about of his fiction at www.firewombats.com.

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Susan Cornford – Death and the Maiden
Holley Cornetto – Queen of Flowers
Tara Campbell – In the City of Chuckling Roses
Addison Smith – An Itemized List of Charitable Contributions
B. Zelkovich – Lifelike
Elizabeth Broadbent – A Map Like Constellations
Matt Krizan – Swallowed by Darkness
Dawn Vogel – Patience
David J. Thirteen – My Foolish Heart
Rick Danforth – Strawberries in Spring
Robert Bagnall – The Naming of HMS Ark Royal
Amanda Pica – After They’d Gone
Joshua Grasso – Feeding the Dark
Maura Yzmore – Barry
Jason Burnham – Just Ask Clio
Nick Wisseman – You Are What You Mage
Taylor Rae – Run with the Hunted
Eric Fomley – Intervention
Helena Pantsis – Artificial Autonomy
Daniel Lidman – Ship Astray
Andrew Kozma – The Tower of Seed and Promise
Bridget Haug – Unbounded
Jessica Wilcox – Hephaestus Clockwork
AR Turner – Drift
MM Schreier – A Mathematical Betrayal
Jason P. Burnham – Today’s Daytime Tasks
Jon Lasser – Pictures from a Hotel Room on Fire
Jacey Bedford – Mort’s Laws
Kai Delmas – A World of Broken Things
Tiffani Angus – If Wishes Were Horses
Eric Fomley – Download Day
Thomas Griffin – Pickup Artist
Judy Darley – Milk Tooth
Dylan Kwok – Vicky Cooper
Joachim Heijndermans – Please Remain Calm
Karl Dandenell – Five Things You Should Know Before Summoning a Demon
Lyndsey Croal – Nuckelavee Winter
Julie Pitzel – The Breach
Marissa James – Bite Back
Brett Abrahamsen – The Fermi Paradox
Katie jordan – When Time Runs Out
Eric Fomley – Fragmented
Tara Campbell – Ghost Wolf
Emmie Christie – Craving for Another Summer
Maura Yzmore – Custom Welding
Robert Stahl – The Trouble with Goblins
Ash Jones – New Year’s Dawn
Liam Hogan – Beginnings
Emma Lewin – Carbon Dating
David Zweifler – I Like to be Hit
Francesca Lembregts – A Line on the Map
Tom Duke – The Season of my Becoming
Brick Marlin – The Rep
Charlotte Langtree – That Was Unexpected
Bridget Haug – Butterflies
Mike Murphy – Joey Salami’s Halloween
Jason Lane – Captain, Please Respond
Karl Dandenell – Final Exam, Demonology
Marge Simon – Pilgrims
Claire McNerny – Slowing Down
MM Schreier – City of Lights
Trey Dowell – Head Games
Chrissie Rohrman – The Long Way Home
J.D. Harlock – Sariya Grants a Wish
G. Ekman – Willow
Maura Yzmore – Among the Monsters
Sam Winner – Friday the 13th
Alyson Tait – A Little Monster
Brian Maycock – Curfew
Lynne Lumsden-Green – The Wager
Eric Fomley – Clone Care
Natalie Burrows – Within These Walls
Tim McDaniel – Black Friday
Liam Hogan – The Dragon Hunter
James Cato – It’s Free to Laugh
Aeryn Rudel – Rhymes With Dead
John Adams – Even Bad Guys Have Good Days in Excelsior City
Holly Schofield – Special Delivery
Danielle C. Chen – Excurmania
Eilidh Spence – Cameo
Cathleen Davies – Frankie Says Relax
Marc Ruvolo – Posthensile
Andrew Kozma – The One with the Red Door
Carys Crossen – Blood Wolf Moon
Aeryn Rudel – News from Home
Ian C Douglas – The Instant Karma Vending Machine
Craig Aitchison – Hearken
Adria Bailton – Submerged
Fija Callaghan – Last Wish
Melion Traverse – Salt and Moonlight
David J. Rank – Walking Dog
Holly Barratt – Rabbit Ears in the Laundry
Holly Rae Garcia – A Werewolf’s Lament
MK Roney – Cornerstone
Malina Douglas – The Needlecraft Guide to Averting Doom
Tova Hope-Liel – Palingenesis
Sam Winner – The Silence of the Owl
Jennifer Loring – Burn
N.E. Rule – Eye Candy
Jane Saunders – looking Back
Eric Fomley – War Crimes
Sarah Gallego – The Final Voyage of Amos
David Rogers – What We Found on the Way to Alpha Centauri
Robert Bagnall – Felis Sarcasticus
Alexander Xavier Urpi – The Pit
Russell Hemmell – Bird Masks and Leather Butterflies
Ephiny Gale – Light and Sleek and Strong
Richard Wren – In My Image
Bob Johnston – Debt
Michelle Muenzler – Neither Sleeping, nor Alive, nor Dead
Cheryl Sonnier – Wolf Whistle
Marisca Pichette – The Tail
A. P. Howell – Purple Lizard Skin
Adam Knight – Parts
Avra Margariti – College Survival Tips for Girls and Wolves
Ian Robert Krueger – It Lives
Chrissie Rohrman – Small Packages
Abigail Celeste – The Bees
Jacey Bedford – The Loneliness of the Long Distance Panda
Dawn Vogel – The Dark Forest Takes
Vaughan Stanger – In Every Dream Home

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