t'was the night before christmas | round i

[The Elves]

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and you in you cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, You sprang from your bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window you flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to your wondering eyes did appear, But a green furry man and eight tiny demons All wearing antlers, so ugly and fake, You knew in a moment he must be The Grinch.   But what can you do? This is no ordinary Grinch, not the guy from the Seuss books whose heart ends up growing three sizes too big. His eyes glow a strange, hideous green, but you cannot see pupils. His fake little reindeer run on two legs, cackling, the snow turning to slush in their wake.   Something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.   There’s another clatter on the roof, and you hear more cackling, the gremlin-like noise of the demons. They are clambering down through the chimney. No one else seems to have heard them, and you look around. Maybe this is a dream. You’ve never walked on two legs before, after all. Never had a bed, or children for that matter.   But it feels real. The hair on the back of your neck is standing up, a cold sweat beginning to soak through those cheesy red christmas PJ’s you wear every year.    But what do you do? Do you pinch yourself, try to wake up? Do you run to save the children, do you wake up Mamma (or Papa, whatever the case may be for you)? Do you run downstairs and try to save the gifts? Oh, the gifts! You can already hear the demons down there, destroying Christmas. You worked so hard on that tree, put so much effort into those gifts…   Christmas. It is so much work, isn’t it? Briefly, you consider going back to bed. Let the Grinch ruin Christmas. Then you’d never have to do it again. Your children are spoiled enough, after all.    The demons on are on the stairs now. Something heavier, larger, is on the roof. Their master, that demon Grinch. You have no more time to decide.    You have to act.    Write about how you are feeling during this time. What is your immediate reaction to seeing the demons, the Grinch? How do you decide what to do? This may or may not be a dream. You have no idea. Write about it, but you are not required to come to any conclusion. For the sake of clarity, you are human at this point, and you know all about Christmas and Santa and whatnot. You still remember your life as a horse. Lastly, write about what you choose to do. You aren’t limited to the options in the prompt, but make sure whatever you choose does make sense within the context of the story. You may powerplay the demons/the Grinch, but you may not kill them/magically save Christmas or anything of that nature. You have until Thursday, 9:00am EST to reply. The Elves understand that is is a busy time of year. Therefore, this quest will be 3 or 4 rounds and no more. You will typically have about three days to reply, unless the Elves really screw up. Sometimes they get distracted playing with all the toys. One entry per player. No entry limit. Failure to respond on time in the coming rounds, or elimination from a round, may result in a defect. There be demons here, after all. Eliminations will be based on creativity of the post, grammar, etc. If The Elves absolutely cannot decide, they reserve the right to use chance to help eliminations along. Any trait your character has is gone. Guess you better get out your frying pan. PM or post on the OOC board with any questions for The Elves. They will be along to answer your questions.

[Blazed]

I see things, things I have never seen before. Climbing the roof, into the house, then the kargest one follows them all. Down, the stairs, the chimney, the tree I decorated myself, into ruining the precious presents I would have opened in the morn. Why, oh Why? I think, already running for something to use to kill, and stop dead. "Is this simply a dream?" I almost say out loud, hearing them come closer. I pinch myself, but feel nothing. Is it because I was being taught to relish pain, which made me insensitive? Or is it, indeed, a dream and nothing more? One comes through my chamber's door, and shrieks in delight at the prospect of attacking me. A lower, deeper sound follows from farther away, some sort of growl. I reach for my bat - isn't this used to hit baseballs? - and it all ends. I am asleep, it was only a living nightmare. Nothing more, yet I heard a noise only too similar to that demon in my dreams. "Mother! Wake up!" I cry to my mother, standing at her chamber door. But it was late, just too late to save Mother. I swing the door open, screaming out of rage as I see my mother lying bloody and dead, with a demon-thing sitting on her chest and eating her flesh. "Die, stupid demon! I want my mother back!" I cry, sobbing as I run around and around, trying to reach the demon-thing and kill it.

[Nayl]

She spun the stars on her fingernails With her eyes shut so gently and her face buried, Nayl sleeps. Her breaths are shallow as her mind twists between the different stages of slumber, in and out of REM. Her body rustles to nestle deeper and more comfortably until there is a sound that stirs her drowsily from her sleep. Her eyes, the beautiful colors of autumn, blearily open and blink. Her body feels paralyzed, exhausted, and so she hesitates to move. In and out, she continues to breathe while still listening to the clambering of feet outside the window. Mother and father asleep. That is confirmed when Nayl turns her head to listen to the distant snores. A smile finds its way to her lips but she tries to subdue it while kicking off her blankets. Such a clatter there is outside. It's so late that she can only hope that it is St. Nicholas himself coming to visit. After all, she has been good this year. She has helped her parents with chores and hasn't constantly tormented her twin brothers. She hasn't roused any enemies or burnt any bridges. Only the teacher finds her a smidge too quiet and not participating enough. Mother says Nayl has been good and that Santa has been watching. While still on her bed Nayl bites her lip thoughtfully. She should still be asleep. Mother says it is the Christmas rule: Santa will only visit the behaved children who are sleeping, tucked in their beds. Frowning, she weighs the options until she hears another clatter of noise. Springs are on her feet as she quickly pads over to her window, trying to be quiet. She almost grabs fistfuls of the curtain but stops just as the soft fabric glides across her palms. No, she has to be more careful than that. An anxious grin is almost bursting to show as she reaches over to grab her favorite stuffed animal of Rudolph. "Maybe I'll finally get to see you for real," she whispers as her face buries into the toy before turning herself to again face the window. Very gently and slowly Nayl crouches down and tries to peek over the windowsill. Small fingers grasp the curtain and blinds and push them just sightly out of the way so that she may finally catch glimpse of Santa and, hopefully, her beloved Rudolph. The moonlight illuminates the front yard enough to see the faces and creatures making their grand entrance. Unfortunately, it isn't what she expected and her stomach immediately twists into thousands of knots. There is no Santa but instead a furry green man with eyes aglow and little demons scampering at his feet. Unable to tear her eyes away Nayl continues to stare, but it's a moment too long as her gaze is met by the Grinch's. A yellowed, sadistic grin stretches across his lips as his chin lifts to look in the child's window from the snowy front yard. He says nothing, does nothing. From afar he just observes the small girl who hides behind her curtain and stuffed animal. When she ducks and turns away from the window her heart begins to flutter. "Rudolph, he saw me... I think that thing saw me," her voice is a trembling whimper as she clutches her stuffed animal tighter, fear poisoning her veins. Her breaths quicken for a few seconds until she takes and holds one in. Slowly, Nayl turns to again peek out the window, hoping they all have left. Nothing is there. Relief sighs out of her as she pivots and sits with her back leaning against the wall and windowsill. "They're go--" she almost says it too soon. There are footsteps on the roof, many of them, clambering to the chimney before scooting down. She can hear their cacophonous laughter as their claws scrape down the brick. "No, no, no..." Nayl stands up quickly and awkwardly runs to her bed. Her legs feel like pudding, her muscles quivering in fright. Everything feels surreal and she wonders what is real and what is a dream, but then catches herself because there is no time to ponder. Her thoughts are racing and for a fleeting moment she is lost until there is a tap on the window. The creature is clawing at her house, desperate to maintain its grip. The false antlers are torn away before it gingerly reaches forward and scrapes the glass with its ominous talons. Nayl, still clutching Rudolph, runs to grab her ceramic piggy bank then runs out of her room screaming while the demon tries to break through her window. In a meager effort to keep it out, she shuts the bedroom door behind her. Sweat clings to her skin and yet she is still cold while taking in what's happening. It's like she can't move fast enough while those monsters are running rampant on the roof and down the chimney. Panting, Nayl scurries to the stairs. The door to outside is within view when she stands atop the staircase but after taking two steps down, she stops. The crashing of objects pauses her, frightens her. She bites her lip. A hushed footstep is taken further down before she hesitates again. She can hear them tearing apart the tree, dropping the delicate ornaments passed down from her great-grandparents, and the ripping apart the stockings. Tears well in her eyes before she blinks them away and glances to the top of the stairs where her parents' bedroom door is near. How have they not woken up? A lump forms in her throat when she hears footsteps on the roof again, but these are heavier. Her body trembles. "Grinch?" She whispers his name before shrinking down and crawling back up the stairs. A loud crash echoes through the living room and clouds of soot roll across the foot of the stairs. She hears the crashing of glass and realizes that the minion has finally broken into her bedroom. The girl mewls and runs into her parents' bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind her. With her piggy bank and Rudolph still pressed against her sides she runs to mother and father's bed. "Momma! Poppa! Wake up! Wake up!" They don't budge, but they are still sleeping. Their breaths remain shallow and undisturbed, both in peaceful slumbers. Frustrated, Nayl sets her belongings down and jumps on the bed, rocking her parents back and forth desperately. "Please wake up!" It's as though she isn't there as they continue to sleep in the wee hours of Christmas. Crying now, Nayl pauses to hear the scampering footsteps ascending the stairs. Those creatures are coming. Fear grips her and for a moment she is paralyzed in the bed with her parents. Another heavy sound on the roof startles her and spurs her into action. Jumping off their bed Nayl grabs her piggy bank and Rudolph then runs to her parents' attached bathroom. The clatter inside the ceramic pig isn't all loose change as she hurriedly closes the door behind her. Their shower and double sink is to her left along the wall and their tub is to her right. Straight ahead is the window that is just above the roof of their enclosed deck, and tucked into its own little nook near the window rests the toilet. With footsteps still looming near Nayl shuffles to the toilet and hides in that small nook, clutching Rudolph and the ceramic pig tightly. The decorations are destroyed. The remains of the gifts are scattered across the living room floor. Her parents won't stir from their slumber. Her brothers are at an awkwardly-timed sleepover. Alone, she cowers next to the toilet and continues to listen to the heavier footsteps that are now inside the house and wandering near the staircase. "No," another weak whisper as her eyes tightly shut. Rocking back and forth on her feet Nayl can only hope that this is a nightmare. Please, let it be a nightmare. Wrapping her arms around her knees she quietly cries into her legs, her heartbeat in sync with the multiple footsteps of the demons.     Nayl covet and myrina's creation

[Anahera]

while the morning stars sang together

She walked quietly through the trees, pregnant, not a care in the world, when in an instant, everything went black...

Here she sleeps....in a fluffy pink canopy bed, the room of a daughter, young, naive, and innocent. She was just in her 4th elementary year and living in a fantasy world, so of course it was only natural she would believe in Santa and her younger brother.....wait...She shakes her head slightly, snorting a little in her "sleep".....her mind reels in her "dreams"....she then thinks back....she was a horse not too long ago..and an.adult, AND PREGANT.....that is right...she was walking through the woods when suddenly she went dizzy and now she is here, in a bed, not a sign of her baby bump or wings, and HUMAN.

this must be a dream...I will flow with it...I am spending christmas at the family homestead, this will be a pleasantly interesting dream...

She wakes, a clatter on the roof above that sounds as if it were Santa's reindeer brings her to an upright position. She leaps out of bed with an excited curiosity, her blonde curls bounced as socked feet quickly bounded down the hall and to the stairs. She felt excited, could it really be!? But, this is...not right. Her gut is telling her something is wrong. But how could Santa be bad? How could he be? But soon down the chimney elves came, but they were not what they seemed in the stories....they were distorted and menacing, ripping at the stockings hung perfectly on the mantle. Anahera steps back slowly, quietly....ducking herself behind the stair railing. Blue eyes wide with the bubbling up of her fears. She thinks a moment...what to do...what to do...She looks to her left, she sees the flight of stairs leading to she and her brother's bedrooms and mother and father's room. To her right, there was a doorway that lead into the kitchen...she does not have much time....for the clatter on the roof turned into loud bangs. She begins to feel trapped....what should she do???

How is it that no one is waking up?! These...THINGS are destroying our home!! I have to do something quick...

Her fear makes her freeze momentarily as what is dressed like Santa emerged from the fireplace in a poof of soot. Her eyes grow wider, fear gripping her in the likeness of being dunked into a tank of water while being strapped into a straight jacket. Her usual timid and passive nature is shoved aside by intense rush of adrenaline...the "Grinch" lets out a nasty snarl and speaks in a tongue unknown to her, his gnarly minions scattered about the house, ripping family photos off the walls and destroying every beloved possession in the home. The Grinch's menacing eyes burned into hers...contact was made. He lets out a thunderous laugh and his minions began ripping apart the presents...he then turned to reach for the angel atop the tree, ripping her wings off one by one...symbolism? maybe, but this is her chance. She turns quickly to the right and slips into the kitchen, in her blind rage, the blonde, red pajama clad girl forgets which drawer the knives are in. There is no time to search, she had to think fast. Then it hit her, she was going full on Rapunzel.

Overhead a rack of hanging pots and pans hovered. Anahera grabbed the largest, most hold-able frying pan she could find, and quickly slipped to put her back against the wall right on the left of the doorway. She can hear the beast jangle and thud down the hall toward the door, she tightens her grip on the handle of the pan. She takes a quick moment to survey her surroundings, she sees there is a window over the kitchen sink, and a back door. She wonders if she could make it to the door...but that would be too loud when she shuts it....the window would be her best bet. But....the family...she couldn't risk running out into the hall and up the stairs now....

Suddenly an imp drops down from the cabinet overhead and starts pulling at her hair. She stipends a screech and struggles to get the demon off of her. It laughs as it scratches at her face and continues to rip at her hair. She manages to flip her long hair down far enough from her face to take a swat at it with the pan. It dodges the first swing but the second was much more successful...it fell to the floor..not dead...just out of order for a little while...obviously she had gained some unwanted attention now. She had to find somewhere to perch....then she sees it...a pass through. She beams...this used to be "daddy"'s booze storage, but he acquired a new one and "mother" had conveniently cleaned it out a few nights prior. She has to move fast.

Anahera quietly and swiftly skittered across the cold tile floor to the unlocked side of the pass through. She fit perfectly, and closed the door just enough so she could see....on the other side of the pass through is the living room/dining room...there the imps could be heard giggling and screeching foreign words...and the beast....soon she can hear the Grinch...he is just on the other side of the pass through in the living room....his breathing is practically right in her ear. The tears well up in her blue eyes....this nightmare...she had to wake up....she just had to...silent sobs shake her body...she can't help herself...she hopes he does not hear her...but he is RIGHT THERE....and the imps are now making their way into the kitchen....going through the fridge and climbing on the light over the table...she is in a bad spot...bad bad bad....what now...what is she to do now....what would happen if he caught her..??? This was a dream....a bad dream....this literally could not be real...

ANAHERA

Marijuana x Freiya

[Kataclysm]

”You have got to be kidding me.”was the first thing she thought of when she heard the commotion, banging and crashing, she was instantly annoyed. Her eyes flew open and she glared down at the body she was in, her mouth was agape, shocked into silence as these new memories flooded her brain. She had brothers and sisters, and mother. This one liked her, well more than the horse one she remembers. She threw her body out of bed, stumbling as she figured out how to move. She looked around for signs of destruction or an intruder- whatever it was was not in her room.  Kat moved to the door and threw it open, expecting to hear her kid siblings laughing ”MOM! The dweebs are already up! I’m going—“ Her unusually clear and light voice fell abruptly silent and her head snapped to the living room down the stairs. Those were not the sweet little giggles of her brothers and sisters.

She turned around going into her brother’s room, she knew he liked baseball and would have a bat. Part of her was amazed at her knowledge of this family that she didn’t quite know was real or not. A crash from downstairs refocused her, she needed to go get whomever was destroying the hours of her time wrapping presents.  Mother made her help (of course), and she had to wrap instead of going to the movies with her friends. She blinked-friends? Movies? What? If this was a dream it was the oddest most intense dream Kat had ever had. She grabbed the bat from the floor and took off downstairs at a run, Kat called over her shoulder again, “MOOOOM!She hated that her mother could sleep through the apocalypse.

Down the stairs and about the corner, the living room was just a few paces away. She ducked at the loudest thud rumbled down from the roof.  You have got to be kidding me! Kat wondered at what was going on, but there was little time to ponder. She took a few fortifying breaths, working up the nerveto throw herself at whatever was in the living room. Kat yelled around the corner, and took the bat to a two of the little demons. Each contact she achieved made a nice thud against the hard dense bat. The demons were completely taken off guard, which helped her initially, but not for long. Her moment of surprise over, the demons took a little more care around her now. The beady eyed little monsters hopped around quick on their feet waiting for her to attack. Kat glared at them, a snarl rose in her mouth, her words a hiss. ”Listen here you assholes, I did not miss out on my friends, and spend hours wrapping these gifts for you to ruin it.” She swung the bat with two hands, over her head lunging forward towards the fireplace. Thud, that makes three.  There was a distinct ripping sound, Kat turned with dread to see the other 5 demons each rip apart the wrapping paper. UURRGGHH! You little heathens!”

The little demons laughed in response, each breaking the gift it held. Kat was suddenly hit with emotion; her mother worked hard so they could have a Christmas and they usually only got 2 presents. (Though her favorite was the stockings- filled with candy, and cookies. Her mother always made sure each kid got their favorites.) Those little monsters too half the stash under the tree- destroying the time effor and money that her family had worked so hard to attain. She lunged at them, tears in her dark brown eyes. The demons were prepared, and leaped to the tree knocking it over and into the fireplace. Ornaments shattered into the smallest of pieces, a darkly beautiful picture of destruction where there was once a picture of love and family. Kat angrily wiped the tears away. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion, and her best efforts were not proving to be enough. 

The thumping on the roof grew louder, which broke the spell of the horrible moment.The noise came from the chimney now, grunting, scraping, dark laughter grew each moment. Even the demons paused at the sound before they went back to tearing apart gifts. Kat stumbled backwards, not knowing what else to do. While her siblings were the most annoying people ever, she didn’t want to pull them into this, and her mother was dead to the world when asleep. Kat didn’t know what to do. How could she keep the bigger thing out? It was obviously trying to come down the chimney.Then she figures it out- the fireplace. She ran over to it, not bothering with the demons- they could rip apart presents—she had to keep more form getting in. By the fireplace where those insta-light fire logs, she threw one into the fire place, and grabbed the lighter. She flicked it on and lit the log, fire taking to it easily. The tree was awkward to move, but she tried to get it away from the fireplace so she kicked it a few feet. It would have to do, at least it wouldn't instantly catch fire. Kat picked up the bat again, and swung at the demon lurking forwards the stockings. ”Oh no you don’t! You can take the gifts but you are NOT taking the stockings too! Swing, thud, swing, thud- there go number 4 and 5. Then a yelp cried out from the fireplace, followed by a swift motion up the chimney. 

A wicked smile took over Kat’s face and she turned back to the demons, a small but meaningful victory. Kat swung the bat through the air, all but ready to knock some of them across the room. They may have ruined Christmas, but she was vengeful as a horse, and she felt no reason to hide that now.  Her bat flew through the air as the demons danced around it. Kat swung overhead, back handed, lunged and each time the demons avoided her. She wanted to scream. She still had to save her family. The stomping on the roof grew louder then and with a puff of smoke the fire was out and the…the GRINCH (?!?!?) was standing there!  Kat stumbled backwards, small yelp of fright falling from her lips. You have got to be kidding me! Ugh! What is the the Christmas dream from hell?!? The little monsters danced, happy to see their apparent master.  The ones she had knocked out slowly got back up, and hobbled to the creepy Grinch. They lined up in front of her, eyes gleaming. Kat swallowed hard, not liking the odds that stacked up against her. There were more of then than her, and she was not as effective as she had hoped. She knew what she would do in horse form, but she couldn't make that happen now. Either way, she had to save what she could of Christmas for her siblings--even if it was just the stockings. She lifted her chin; mouth set in a thin line and bounced the bat off her spare hand. They had already ruined most of Christmas what else did she have to lose?

{ Kataclysm }

Me and God? We don't get along well.

[Lirren]

And inside you're burning
with some secret yearning

Wide silvery eyes snap open to find bright shafts of moonlight streaming through the clear panes of glass separating the warm bedroom from the cold, wintry night outside. Those silver eyes blink in mild surprise and sleepiness. It is nighttime, so why is she sleeping?

She loves the night more than she loves any other time, when the moon is high and the stars twinkle brightly in the velvety black sky. Normally, she would be awake, would be basking in the glow of the stars as they filled her with quiet reassurance. But then memories tumble through her mind, a jumble of conflicting histories and knowledge.

She is a horse, red and teal, with starlight in her soul and a loving, doting sister. She is a woman with a busy, sharp-minded husband and two young children. She is a carefree and blissful filly with joy in her heart. She is a middle-aged woman with a life full of responsibility and burdens weighing her down.

For a moment, she doesn’t know who she is.

She sits up suddenly, blankets falling to her waist as she rises into abrupt wakefulness. She turns her head slightly, gaze falling upon the man in the bed beside her. Her husband, she knows. Married now for nine years. Nine long years. He had married her because she is beautiful. She had married him because he is wealthy. Isn’t that how the story always goes?

And suddenly, she remembers it is Christmas.

Oh, but she loves Christmas! The parties and the presents. The food and the wine. The merry cheer.  The thrill of Christmas morning, when her children open presents with wonder and joy upon their faces. There had never been Christmas before, not in the Dale with her sister. Only snow and cold.

A sound outside startles her from her reverie, drawing her attention to the large window overlooking the back yard. Flipping the covers from her pajama clad legs, she slips from the bed and approaches the window. Below her is a wide, smooth expanse covered in icy white snow, untouched by tracks. Her eyes are immediately drawn to the only movement across the moonlit lawn.

Her first reaction is incredulity. Santa is not real, is he? But then she sees what it is more clearly and confusion is replaced by horror. It is not a jolly old elf that she sees, but a terrible furred monster with glowing green eyes and cackling horde of antlered demons. They disappear quickly from sight, but all too soon she hears a great ruckus coming from the roof.

”No…” she breathes in disbelief and dread. She must be dreaming. That is the only explanation. They cannot be real. Santa is not real and neither are they. But then the scrabble of feet and cold, callous laughter echoes up the hallway through her partially open door, and she knows they are.

She briefly considers simply going back to bed, pretending this is not real. Pretending that she is still a lighthearted young mare and that these dual memories do not tug at her consciousness. Pretending that she won’t wake up to Christmas destroyed.

Christmas… destroyed.

The thought spurs her into action. It is the one time of year she can be free and merry, the one time of year she doesn’t have too many bills and a cold marriage as her only solace. She bolts for the door, stocking clad feet slipping as they leave the rug and hit cold hardwood. But she manages to keep her balance and slips quietly through the door into the dark hallway.

She is too late. They are already on the stairs. She can hear the crashing and cackling from below, the thump of little feet on the steps. The rending and clacking of the lighted garland being ripped from the banister.

Suddenly she is furious. She wishes she were still that horse, child of the stars and keeper of their light. She would use that beautiful power, teach them a thing or two about enraging a daughter of the night.

But alas she is only human.

The heavy footfalls of the Grinch are echoing on the roof now, a steady toll spelling doom upon Christmas. With a shriek of combined fury and terror, she charges down the hall, barreling straight for the handful of ugly devils littering the stairs. She nearly slips down the steps, forgetting for a moment that she is wearing socks and that wood floors are slippery. But she catches herself, grabbing at one of the demons for support. Realizing what she has done, she lets out a small scream and flings the beast over the railing. But before she can get her bearings, before she can recall exactly what it is she thought she might do against these creatures, they are upon her, snickering gleefully as they pin her arms to her sides.

She is a small and slender woman, one who has had little need to strengthen herself, and they have no trouble subduing her. She snaps her mouth shut, determination replacing horror as she represses a scream. She prays that her children have not woken, that they remain in their bed and, hopefully, out of harm’s way. She would find a way out of this, if not through strength, then through trickery.

They carry her through her once lovely house, now littered with tinsel and paper. Ornaments are scattered about the floor, freed from a tree that now lay on its side. She mourns the loss of that perfectly decorated tree, of the beauty Christmas brings to her home.

And then he is before her, a wide grin upon his hideous green features. She is dumped unceremoniously at his feet, the gleeful laughter of the antlered demons telling her that they are not done with her. She glances around wildly, hoping to find something with which to defend herself. Hoping beyond hope that she might yet be able to save Christmas.

Lirren

starlit daughter of joythief and carnage

html c insane | pic c laura-ferreira.deviantart.com

[farren]

f a r r e n

Soft light from the nightlight illuminated his room, the fish in the tank by the window swimming peacefully as he slept, their shadows swimming on the wall behind them. There is moonlight streaming in from his window, a tree brushing softly against the frosty glass. It is quiet, and the whole world is asleep.

Mostly.

He wakes and does not know why; sleep crusts the corners of his eyes, his hair tousled and sticking up from sleep. He blinks, clearing his eyes, a yawn stretching out his mouth. He is warm and sleepy, young enough to carry the blind confidence the young do. His room is warm and cozy, and he wants to curl back up under his favorite blanket and fall back asleep. He is moments from sleep, snuggled back under the quilt his mama made for him, covered with patches of special fabric she said would protect him. But he is awake enough to hear the twinkling of bells, and he immediately shoots upright, eyes wide with realization - Santa's sleigh is covered in the gentle-sounding bells, and it is Christmas, and he is awake and could that actually be Santa? He tosses the blankets from his footie-pajama'd legs, grasping the quilt in his hand as he pushes himself out of bed. 

Mama always told him stories about how Santa wouldn't come if he was awake - Santa was good enough to know if he was up! - but he couldn't resist a peek. Santa couldn't possibly know if he peeked, right? So he tiptoed over to the window and peered through to the white space beneath the tree, searching for the marks of the reindeer in the immaculate snow. He could hear the bells, they were growing louder, but he couldn't see anything outside. 

And just as fast as the bells had sounded, they stopped.

A pout tugged at his lips - suppose Mama had been right? - and he turned, reluctantly to get back into bed. He froze just as quickly as he had turned, his blood running cold. He had heard just as many stories about the Grinch, about how he had hated Christmas but had turned out to be just fine in the end. This Grinch, this...monstrosity, was not the fluffy green man from the movies. This was devil, incarnate, a yellowed smile stretching across his lips. Small fingers curled tightly around the quilt, praying that his Mama had been right about it saving him as the monster approached. He was frozen in place, fear contorting his features and widening his eyes, his knuckles whiter than the new-fallen snow outside his room. One step closer and he screamed, the monster letting out a noise that shook him to his core, making him cringe and moan in pain.

He knew nothing as adrenaline took over, his legs pumping has he carried himself out the door and down the hall, crying for his parents but receiving no response. His quilt was wrapped around his arm, his hand gripping the stair railing desperately as he fled the monster, the Grinch, footfalls like thunder echoing through the otherwise silent home. Laughter surrounded him, edged with something sinister, and he swore he saw eyes watching him, saw hands grabbing for his ankles, for his clothes, his quilt. 

Terror drove him as he slipped into the living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him; little monsters, little devils, were tearing apart the tree, the presents, destroying both memories and hard work from his parents and himself, tears spilling down his cheeks as he felt the overwhelming pressure of being alone. He could hear sounds from above, the thundering steps as the monster approached a room, and he could hear screams and silence just as quickly, the laughter surrounding him again, and he couldn't take this, he was only a kid! 

And suddenly, he refocused on what was before him, to the little demons devouring memories to come and memories to cherish, to find them watching him, with fanged smiles twisting at their bloodied mouths. A whimper escaped his lips as he fled again, gathering his quilt tightly in his arms as he escaped into the kitchen and into the pantry, shutting the door with trembling fingers. He tried to barricade the door with boxes, with a broom, with a step-stool he used to get the cookies from the top shelf, before huddling on the ground, pressing deep into the corner, darkness surrounding him as he inhaled the comforting scent of his quilt, of his mother, and suddenly he was crying again, tears streaming down his cheeks as he hid his face in the soft fabric. He could hear them outside, tearing apart the kitchen, looking for him, the thunder approaching once again as the monster came back.

He is only a child, scared and alone, with a quilt to serve him comfort - Christmas had been his favorite, but this would stay for him for years to come if he lived, this pantry the only thing saving him, and he didn't know if it would live up to the task.

[Hestia]

we're setting fire to our insides for fun

Her neck craned to rest on Fennicks shoulder, just as his rested on hers. Eona smashed between the two of them; Hestia's belly took up most of the space. It was the first time she truly had a family, first time that she had created a family. Its with a joyful heart that this Christmas, she will know, who she wakes too… Will she? Who could tell what the Elves had in mind for her this Christmas. Who would know what the woodland nymphs decide to coax from her head this night.

She drifted to sleep, listened to the soft breathes of the loved ones around her. The crickets hummed to one another, the birds rustling in a fitful manner. It was peaceful to listen to, it was home to know. Into a world of fairy induced dreams she fell. It wasn't through her own eyes that she existed though.

Its a kick, then a thrust that pushed her belly to bursting. He could feel the solid earth on the other side of the swollen membrane. The world contracted around him, suffocating him inside his home. Pop, crack, slip, and slide, it's all it took for the creature to begin the fight. Pushed and shoved, its one thing after another. He was poked, then squeezed, between pop, and push he managed to catch a breath. Tender bones began to be bruised once more.

It was silent, a silence that only proceeds the most vile of things. The world no longer pulsed and hummed a red hew around him. It had taken a new shape, a colder place, a quieter aura. He was born, the new creation exhausted and cold. Lashes drift blurring his vision. He was left disoriented from what had been several hours of transformation. Loving kisses dried his hide. A delicate whisper Kryten hung on the air. Filling a new void that he didn't know had existed.

Stars lost their luster, a sea of dim lights drifted in and out. They drew closer, then distanced, they flickered with the pulse of his consciousness. He turned his nose to the nutrition of his mother. The small family curled around one another drifting away from this world into another.

A jolt woke him from the seemlessness of dreamless slumber. The border of dreams, and fairies; to the cold reality. The boy groaned before flopping from one side to another. Dark blue cotton swallowed him in warmth, nose nuzzled deep into the pillowed cushion of his moth....

It's a blink, a scrape, a click, then a rustle. Something wasn't right, not in this world, not on this night. Merry ol' Saint Nick was supposed to arrive. Giggles rose in his throat, mischief bubbled in his chest. The appearance of the jolly red man in his mind caused a forgetfulness that can only occur in children. No longer did the cold hands of fear prickle up his spine, nor did the hairs rise on his arm. The world sparkled bright with the light of the moon through the gauzy curtains. Eyrie twilight streamed through the panes, hallowing his sister in her cherubs' dreams.

Toes wiggled in soft fluffy socks, arms shivered from lack of a pajamas top. It took his foggy brain a moment to recover, fingers curled and extended. They played with the cold light, the dust floated around him. Rays carresed his skin, bright as the sun, they bathed the world in a blue haze. Dust settled and danced, kissing the midnight skin that stretched taunt over delicate hands. A hand made for art, not that of a workman; they reached to snag his sister from her angelic trance.

Its only a moment, not a moment to soon, that the cackle of evil disturbed the joy of that silent night. This was a strange site, much less a strange idea to occur his first night of life. Sister... sister... he tried to wake her, fear clutched at his heart. The graceful arch of a neck swiveled around from the child, to the window, to the creamy wall nearby. Shadows loomed there against the sea washed surface; they danced to the candle light. For a better view, he sat up, mouth agape. Hands trembled, crumpling his sisters night cap.

It was quite disturbing to say the least, the walls that he grew up gazing at. The walls that had kept this sort of evil out of his life. Now it was used to create his worst fear. The shadows contorted with the breeze that slipped through the vanilla gauze, almost blowing out the only luminosity in the room. The boy puffed out his chest, flexed his new arms and stood on shaky legs. The cackling gremlins loomed large on the walls. They caged him in, narled fingers curling for his sister. He could make one of them out trailing across her face carressing it in sick desire.

His sister was not waking, he needed to be brave for her. He needed to protect her from what ever was out there ready to destroy his new world. Eona! the scream erupted cutting through the night. Filmy silk floated around him. A thud resounded as the wooden pole crashed to the carpet. Tangled in gauze, frozen in fear. The big hazel eyes looked on in twilight. Figures danced on the white blanket of a magical Christmas Eve. They turned it brown, created a sploosh out of the crunch. It lost its sparkle, and destroyed its blinding blue aura. Now it was a mud bath with no life left there.

"When what to your wandering eye did appear" Small green things with enormous ears. Ugly wrinkles, cringled in delight, and was that? No way… he rubbed his eyes, this couldn't be real. There appeared to be antlers atop their heads. 'Twas the nightmare of Christmas... They cackle and hum. One after another slowly turned their gaze upon him. His hands slick with sweat, a sheen glittered on his body. You could almost say he looked godly standing there, petrified with fear. Gauze wrapped in his hands, draped itself unceremoniously across his chest. If not for the mere child size of him, you may indeed have felt the fear.

His eyes fluttered. The first movement his gaze met with the furry monstrosity. The boy finds a sick smile, and ugly wrinkles that greet him. The monster rose in the light of the full moon, casting a shadow across his window. A glowing green haze illuminated the boys face, it was right there climbing his sill. The green pupilless eyes looking up to the roof. He backed away from the window his hands groping for some sort of support. He was met with the floor, the thud of his body turned the angry gaze towards him. It stretched then pursed the mouth forming words, a chant, a chuckle. A sick melody I am the Grinch, its with a joyful heart I take all you hold dear The thing had talked to him, before it began traversing further up to grapple for the roof.

With a swish and a sizzle the candle is blown out, shadows creep away from the window, yawning to swallow the cherub girl. The putrid smell of the Demon breath choked him, burned into his lungs with a venom to squeeze tears from the boys eyes. But on that floor silent as a mouse, he found he could not move, not make a sound.

Alarm raced through him after the Grinch disapeared, in turn it gave him the drive to move. Dad! Mom! His voice reeled, hoping desperately that someone would wake. With the drooping doll in his arms, the boy dashed out of the room. Thumps on the roof, cackles downstairs. His jaw locked once more gazing at his beloved sister; her rosebud lips parted with a fairies dream. Peachs and cream, her skin kissed with the love of family. He would not allow her to wake to this, it only took a moment, a glimpse to the closet. His sister would have to stay there. Click the door shut, scuffle, he was on his way.

It was time to face the monsters, was time to save what he could. No longer worried that the creatures would find his sister. He stripped off the dripping curtains and bed sheets that clung to him in the hustle and bustle of his abrupt awakening. He tightened his red flannel pants with the draw string. They no longer slung low on his bony hips.

From the walls of the hallway, down the stairs, fingers brushing the wooden rail; he slipped closer to the ruckus. Peering through the railing he crouched on the stairs, they took such joy in shredding the tree. The demons cackled and howled Twas the nightmare of Christmas; when all through the house children found nothing not even a louse;" they leapt, they fought, they swallowed the food. Muddy footprints left in the rooms.

Its a creak, then a moan, a step, a crunch. The real monster was just above him. The creature sniffed the air, then chortled out a menecing growl. The boy looked up, the house falling silent once more. This time, there was no shivers of joy, simply the ideological memories of pain prickling up his spine.

He inched his way to the kitchen, slipped by the crazed demons. hands shook attempting for a knife. Dark in this room, hands groped along the counters, fumbled fingers knocking a plant over. He lurched to grasp it, saving it from an untimely demise.

Feet felt clammy on the slick tiles. Breath he commanded himself, just breath. Finally he made out the knife block. After what felt like hours of searching along the boards, toaster, and other utensils, cold steel brushed his hands. One in particular slipped in his grasp, molded in his hand. Curled hands grasped it tightly, a grin split open on his lips, a Grinch sort of smile. The kind that should have scared him. There was something in the air, something to make him not himself.

If the boy had thought about it. The ideas that popped in his head should have startled him. After all he didn't really know how to use a knife, nor what he would do once he got it out of the block. He gave it a tug, but the steel was stubbornly stuck. Another tug, then he stumbled back smashing his spine against the opposite counter. China crashed around him, he gasped sick with what mother would think should she notice the mess.

The noise alerted the demons to his presence. Silent ringing filled the house once more. This time not as pleasant, this time filled with expectation; reeked with fear. It popped, then cracked, slipped then slid, and the world is black once more.

The beat of a heart, the deep breath of putricidy; its the ringing of other worldliness in his ears. Eona last thought on his mind, last words on his tongue, the glowing green of eyes, and chanting of gremlins haunted as he slipped back into unconsciousness….

The whispers of of the cackling chant float in his mind. A dizzy sensation of swimming thoughts made him want to groan. It seemed as days went by, felt as the world has tumbled out existance. He needed to stay strong, he needed to save his sisters Christmas… sister…. Who was his sister? Eona the whisper echos in his mind. Eyes flashed open once more, what happened he didn't know, but this time he was prepared. Knife in hand he laid still for a moment gathering all he could. Mustering his strength for a fight. That he wasn't at all sure he could win.

Kryten

image © laurence demaison

[Pollock]

SLAM.

He sits bolt upright, his chest heaving with the thump-thump of his pulse in his ear. His room is dark. The only light filtering in comes from around the navy blue sheet nailed to the chipped frame in front of his window. Dark, and cold, “fuck.” The furnace's ignition switch is still failing. “Piece of shit,” He mutters, hunching over his half-bent legs. He runs his right hand through the front of his hair, before moving to spread his arms straight up to stretch. The movement is too sudden, and pain shoots through his left shoulder. The boy grunts through clenched teeth, “Damnit.” Right. He reaches with his right hand and touches his left shoulder. It dislocated when he tripped and fell down the stairs two days ago. He sighs, grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Ahh. Fuck.” Sweat dampens the red cotton with bright white snowflakes in rows. A big swoop from his collarbone to his belly button. It has cooled, plastering the red material uncomfortably against his hairless chest.

He kicks his legs off the side of his bed and pulls back his covers, pushing his body up with his strong arm. (His sheets are soaked, too. But... what is all this?) He sways, blood rushing to feed his too-quick uprightness. The teenager pulls his shirt first off from the right and then gingerly down his left arm. Throwing the red shirt to the side, he rifles through a pile of maybe-or-maybe-not clean clothes, extracting from it a grey, striped t-shirt. He shrugs slowly into it. His shoulder, still not examined by a doctor, is painfully swollen and weakened. It'll heal on its own, his mother had assured him. Heal up just fine. Probably more scared of a visit from child protection than an honest guess at a subject she has no clue about. Dumb bitch. Sixteen years old — too old to be protected. Not a child by definition.

She wouldn't have to worry about that again. But habit can be hard to buck.
Besides, he couldn't be bothered to go on his own.

Thump. He flinches, whipping around to face his bedroom door. He grabs for his phone from its spot face down on his bedside table, and presses the power button on the side. It's too bright for a moment, his vision fuzzes over — 3:00 AM. His mother isn't supposed to be back yet, if she is coming back at all. He hadn't been counting on it. He would find her in over-worn makeup and clothes in the morning. Slumped in an armchair, encouraging ("encouraging") swiftness in his present unwrapping. No. He reaches out into the dark to replace the phone, but his aim is off and it makes only cursory contact with the tabletop. Pressing his eyes closed tight as it hits the hardwood, he waits in tense motionlessness. Nothing, and then enough nothing to loosen his muscles and bend over to inspect the health of his phone. Cracked, but likely usable. “Ugh. Of course.” Thud! He tosses his phone onto his bed, too piqued now.

He bounds silently across his room, pressing his palms and left ear against his door. Bump. He looks up with narrowed eyes. Up? There is nothing up. Well, nothing but... What. The. Hell. he mouths each words singularly into the dark, wrapping his right hand around the doorknob. He blinks, his eyes lingering on his pale, lanky hand. “Wha—,” he yanks his it away from the knob, and spreads his fingers out wide, turning his hand over and examining both sides. “What the...” He shakes his head and grabs the knob again. He tries to refocus. But images intrude his mind — he reaches back with his good hand, touching his tender shoulder blade. No wing (of course no wing why would there be a wing you lunatic?)... but... “This is insane,” He grabs the knob again, with more purpose than before and turns it slowly. The clicking of its innards sound entirely too loud, click-click. And the lock has retracted fully, the door ready to swing (creak, really) open. But, he has learned just how to manage the motion of the door to mitigate the tired squeal of the hinges. (Sneaking out has it's advantages.) He knows his bedroom window as intimately. He begins to push slowly, his breathing increasing in speed.

Just down the hall he hears a garbled jibbering. Not of this world, not natural. He tugs the door back in haste and it settles in the frame with a clunk! He moves quickly to turn the knob's lock, clink, and stumbles back. A pile of guitar song books catching his heels nearly upends him.  “No way,” The boy whirls around, tumbling for his bed in the dark, searching for the phone with both hands. There. He clicks it on — 3:00 AM. Desperately he tries to swipe the screen to activate the menu, but it stays, frozen. 3:00 AM. Must have sustained more internal damage than it looks. “Just f-f—ah! great,” He mimes a throwing motion before tossing it back on his bed, crawling up and across it with a wince. He kneels for a moment in front of the window and looks down at those odd fingers on his red-and-white clothed thighs. “Just breathe Elliot you damn...” He places his head in his hands, rustling his darkened blonde hair. (Elliot? Is that it? Yes, Elliot Poll...) He pushes out an warning exhale. The last thing he wants is more meds.

He hooks his right index finger around the back of the sheet, pulling it away inch by inch. His room is on the second story of their squat and brown subsidized, attached housing. He looks down on three back lawns — his and his neighbours', left and right. The houses on the street are attached in brown-bricked trios. All three are brightened by LEDs on a string. He hadn't bothered to put up lights on their gutters this year. The dad next door had simply bridged the gap so all three households had some cheer. (He had lit and made-up the tree downstairs with care, though.) His mother had brought him cookies, of course. Whore.

The moon is fat and round, obscured in part by greyish clouds. It has a mighty glow, and the lawn below nearly looks like it could be an overcast day. Instead the whole scene just looks otherworldly, the brightness an alien source. There are four black and oddly shaped figures standing around a lifeless young crabapple. Short. (Maybe a foot tall?) A few weeks back, the two small children from next door had festooned it with an old string of multi-coloured, incandescent Christmas lights with their dad...

His mouth is dry, and his tongue feels thick. He lets the sheet back a bit, so that he can just barely peek down on the lawn. The creatures look to be in conference, pointing and moving with quick motions. One shoves another and crosses its arms with machismo; the other two wave their arms wildly. Suddenly Elliot hears tittering outside his door behind him, like a conversation or an argument. And then his doorknob wriggles. He turns to watch it (must be two, one on another's shoulders), his hand moves instinctively to cover his mouth. From outside the window, a thud and a sudden darkness eclipses his room. He turns back in a flash, hand still in place. His finger drags the sheet back a centimeter, a millimeter more. Hanging, with one arm from his roof and pointing emphatically with the other, is a green, humanoid... monster. It is two arms' lengths (and a window pane) away.

Elliot Pollock (or is it just...) stifles a yelp. But he is helpless to return the sheet to its original position in fear of alerting the creature to the movement. Or perhaps just because of fear in general. It drops down with a heavy thud and straightens up, stomping towards the gremlin-like gathering. He thinks he can hear the muffled sound of a voice. Is it English? He seems to instruct the group like a field general, and they begin to skitter up the trunk of the tree, biting the thick string and shattering the coloured glass.

The green monster turns and Pollock can see now that he is sickeningly tall — well over six feet. He is portly and... hairy?; his face human enough but twisted and exaggerated by a wide and horrible grin stretching impossibly from ear to ear. His eyes are worst of all, like green headlights. He seems content with the destruction and strides across the snow to... is it his backdoor, maybe? Elliot jumps back from the window and onto his feet and the floor. “Oh fuck,” He whispers. For a second he comes to an epiphany... but of course, those things don't work here. He feels it, understands it, with an admixture of nausea and frustration. Besides, how the hell would he even go about turning invisible, hmm? Keep it together Pollock, christ. He turns around and around, umm-ing under his breath.

In his closet is a graphite hockey stick, and a .22 air rifle that his father had left him. A slow loading, one pellet at a time, .22 air rifle. “With maybe 10 pellets left. If I can even find the box,” He agonizes, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against his bed, facing his door. He raises both hands, with effort, to grab a fistful of his shaggy hair each. And who the hell knows what those little things are even made of. They could have rock hard exoskeletons, or they could be armoured. He couldn't see them clearly enough. It could kill a rabbit or groundhog, easy. (He had tested that out extensively.) And Him. Too big. It will take a good knock with the stock, best case scenario, to the head somewhere. The stick, he thought, is out of the question. It is weakened by overuse — snapped, it could be a carbon fibre spear. But that's about it.

His mind churns. Scenarios play and replay in his head. (I'm an okay shot. Just okay at range. Close quarters? With a long barrel?) The stick would be lighter, but the heft of the rifle would swing faster. All this is well and good, but aside from a few fistfights Elliot had never really defended himself. His home. Especially not armed. And not against...

Downstairs he hears a great clash. Maybe the decorative ceramic bowl be had painted as kid. The one with happy snowmen, red and blue scarves whipping in the wind. Likely in quite a few shattered pieces right now. More thumping and banging, a great racket gathering. The tree, with it's glittering bulbs, candy canes and winking warm-white lights. The paltry, but cherished, selection of gifts. He couldn't bear to think. He almost didn't hear the sound of pattering feet, and then much more regular strides, up the stairs. And down the hall. And stopping.

“In here?” The voice is deep and theatrical. There is excitement, but in a dangerous way, Pollock thinks. Like a hound finding a squirrel up a tree.
Frantic tittering in response.
“Well. We should take a closer look. I like to be... thorough.”

His doorknob wriggles, and Elliot begins to think. He needs to get his rifle, maybe a zip-up from the closet if one catches his eyes immediately. And he needs to slip out the window. Fast. Really fast. And then a voice surfaces in his head, just barely. It slathers with venom, and he shakes his head against it.

(You're weaker here than even there. It growls, it's a slap to the face, and the boy doesn't even know why. Let's see how deep we can go, hmmm? It sounds so familiar. Better remember who you are fast, because you're all you have.)

picture © Henry Potter

[Xiah]

xiah

She should almost be expecting it when she wakes up – and in a faraway sense, she is expecting it; who doesn’t obsess about Christmas anyways? Not that her last venture into the human world had been anything silver and gold. In fact, they had been exactly the opposite, rather blood red and death black in her opinion. Instead of waking up to the decision of which door and who do you kill, however, Xiah comes to in a comfortable, queen-sized bed, sheets tangled about her ankles (she’s always preferred the coolness). The eve is of Christmas, and all is well. The wind has whispered, the moon has shined; the structure has whimpered, and the children have whined.

Inhaling deeply, the petite black woman extends her lithe arms and points each and every toe until it seems the vertebrae of her spine may very well dislocate. She shouldn’t really be waking up considering the busy morning set out before her, but what can you do. Rolling on to her stomach was a heavy exhale and a sleepy moan, her appendages hide in her stomach as she curls into her very tightest ball.

Thump.

Up in a flash, Xiah becomes suddenly aware of her surroundings. The shock of the human world hits her as hard as a frying pan used in self defense, but at least it’s not all terribly new and frightening. She distinctly remembers having fingers, straight-facing eyes, and two legs instead of four. She also remembers the brutality, the carnage, and the end result of her little shoulder demon.

(…)
He's gone.

The girl does a silent jig on the red cork floor, careful not to bounce too high (the children are sleeping after all). No more sarcasm, jibs or jokes; no more demon, nor his fires and smokes. Her happiness wanes quickly, however; worse things are to be had than sarcastic shoulder-demons, and when the distinct sound of cackling infiltrates the peace of her very own house, she tosses out the idea that everything is okay.

Flitting to the door of her room and opening it wildly, a moan sounds from behind her. Glancing over her shoulder just as she turns the corner, Xiah glimpses another human being in her bed. I’ll deal with that later. Continuing forward, the woman tucks a flyaway hair behind her ear, the other hand smoothing the cheesy red pajamas she wears every year. Yuck.

Withdrawing the drapes in a too-smooth motion, Xiah shrieks at what her eyes behold. An ugly green fellow, eyes all aglow, climbing her wall-side, melting the snow. Reeling backwards as the monster throws his head back to laugh, Xiah’s hands clutch at her marble kitchen counter, heart racing. Why the fuck is The Grinch stealing MY Christmas.

Grey eyes snapping to the stocking-hung fireplace, Xiah curses aloud at the rattling emanating from the small space. Yelling wordlessly and at the top of her well-bred lungs, Xiah attempts to summon whatever human being had lain in her bed without expressly revealing that she knew absolutely nothing about her supposed family. Scrambling around the marble island as she does so, her hands fly to every cupboard until the whole kitchen seems torn apart by reindeer demons.

As her fingers close firmly around the handle of a stone rolling pin, two things happen: a slightly larger version of herself appears at the top of the staircase, and two reindeer-demons tumble on to her stainless white carpet, muddling the whole thing.

”JUDE!” She cries at the stair-born figure, nearly subdued. “What are you doing here!” She screams again with a newfound attitude. Gasping in abhorrence as a gremlin snatches up a hand-wrapped present, Xiah vaults over the counter and beats it on the head with her rolling pin. Surprisingly resistant, the little demon cackles and spirits away, gift held tightly in grubby paws.

Turning to confront the next demon, she finds a horde of Christmas-ruiners destroying all her handiwork. Clutching both handles of her weapon, Xiah swears at the demons before retreating to the stair-top.

“Please tell me you know what to do,”
“Well the kids are sleeping, and you should be too.”
“The Grinch is on our roof, I can’t fucking sleep.”
“Then let’s get down to business; it should be pretty sweet.”
“Shut up Jude. I hate humankind.”
“Oh c’mon, I’m a pretty great find.”


And, with that, the two set out,
One with a weapon, the other without.

You won't have any friends, and I'll live in a room
With flowers on the walls, and golden doorknobs