I’m bringing that
strange festive touch to the blog this Drabble Wednesday, with a variety of odd
Holiday themed bits of short fiction. Plus, when you've finished reading, there's an opportunity to win a free book at the end of the post. Enjoy.
First up some flash fiction, two stories about the
danger of holiday parties…
Don’t
Touch the Eggnog
Spiking the eggnog was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
I just wanted to liven the family Christmas party, get the
aunts, the uncles, the cousins, and the siblings to loosen up a bit. Who knew a few dollops of rum would have
such an effect!
Aunt Lucy was the first to go, climbing onto the coffee
table to do the Can-Can. Oh, the memory
of that will haunt me forever. Uncle
George chimed in with some French song I didn't understand and then
transitioned into “Who Let the Dogs Out”.
From there everything spun out of control. Cousin Fred curled into a human ball and kept
calling for someone named Daphne. My brother Dave and my other brother Daryl
played keep-away with the porcelain Santa and my sister Jane started a food fight
with the rest of my cousins. Aunt Jessica kept muttering “he’s dead” and
something about a cove, while Uncles Bob and Bert got into a fistfight.
By the time they all passed out, the drapes were cover in
pate and cream cheese, Santa was shattered with pieces embedded in the floor, the
coffee table was missing a leg, two uncles had black eyes and someone vomited
over the ficus. I can see Boxing Day
will be spent making hangover cures and apologizing.
I've learned my lesson.
That’s the last time I take advice from Mom and Dad.
Never Put Your Pate Near The Blender
Everyone loved Bob’s New Year’s Eve parties. He never invited too many people and his
house had a good view of the fireworks in the Town Square. He always had tons of food and his New
Year’s cocktails were famous around town.
He was responsible too; you could stay the night if you didn't have a
designated driver or afford cab fare home.
Bob never let anyone drink and drive.
That’s why everybody from Harrisville and the surrounding
area mourned him the year he had the fatal accident...
It was the year he decided to serve Margaritas. He usually saved them for the Fourth of July
party, but that year he changed the menu, serving Sangria instead at the
Independence Day barbecue.
It happened in the kitchen while he was mixing drinks in the blender. No one is certain precisely how it happened, but the end of his tie fell unnoticed in the
liquid as he prepared the ingredients. What is known is that Bob’s cat leapt on the cupboard (the police concluded the feline was after the salmon pate) and her
paw hit the puree button on the blender. It was over in minutes, the tie catching in the blade, Bob’s
face turning purple, his breath choking in his throat. He collapsed to the floor in a mess of
margarita mix and broken blender.
Now, on every New Year’s Eve in Harrisville, we all raise a cocktail and give a toast to Bob. And curse the salmon pate.
Now, on every New Year’s Eve in Harrisville, we all raise a cocktail and give a toast to Bob. And curse the salmon pate.
And now for our feature drabbles…
A Fairy Tale Christmas Story
Once upon a time, far from the land of BB guns, there was
me, Rutherford B. Hasenpheffer, and like all boys (aged 6-12) I had a Christmas
wish. I wanted a dragon (yes, you heard me, a dragon), one legendary,
fire-breathing, winged lizard.
I badgered my parents night and day for a year, following
them around the castle, begging for a dragon. “No,” they said. Repeatedly.
Consistently. But I persisted until somewhere around November they relented.
So I found a baby dragon under the Christmas tree.
The only problem, the darn beast burned down the castle and
now we’re homeless.
An Out of This World New Year
After I mentioned the polka-dotted aliens, Jean insisted she
had to see green snow, so I hovered the spaceship (shaped like a streetcar and
named Desire) from the garage, and we flew to their planet. We arrived in time
for their Lunar Ice Festival and celebrated the New Year dressed in lavender
thermal fusion snowsuits and fuzzy party hats, drinking alien hooch.
Unfortunately, the morning found us five light-years from
Earth in a bizarre hotel suite full of passed out aliens, Jean with a new pink
comet tattoo and me with a raging hangover.
We’re never drinking Romulan Ale again.
And here’s a bonus half-drabble…
Broken Lights
I just couldn't take
my husband’s criticism of my decorating skills anymore. I wrapped the cord around his neck, strangled
him and watched his face turn red as he gasped for air. At least I finally found a use for that
broken set of Christmas lights I never threw away.
Now on to the chance to win a free ebook.
You can check out my list of books on my Smashwords profile:
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/scribe77
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/scribe77
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