‘Tis the season of giving, whether you celebrate Christmas or Hanukkah or whatever is your pleasure. I seem to be leaning on the side of fantasy with this one, in various forms, but given the Christmas season full of virgin births and jolly old men who reputedly bring toys to all the children of the world, I suppose that seems apt. Now, the editor of The Cud generally likes columns to be no more than 2,000 words, and I’ve talked him up to 3,000 given that these flash-fiction pieces all tend to be under 1,000 words each and you can always read whichever ones you want. But since he’s not looking, and it’s the season of giving, I’m just going to go ahead behind his back and throw in a little extra this month. Now, don’t worry about the dark stories herein; we’ll be sure to finish with one specifically that contains a holiday theme.

“Woodland Treasures”
Fantasy
By David M. Fitzpatrick

Calvin had never seen a leprechaun, and he’d begun to doubt their existence despite the stories he’d heard about them being captured and forced to hand over their gold to their captors. If only a leprechaun would find his way to his house in the woods! If he got his hands on one of the tiny little bastards, there was no chance he’d be tricked into letting go. He’d get the gold, then slice the leprechaun’s throat from ear to ear, and toss its body in the old mine shaft, where he’d left a number of travelers he’d waylaid over the years.

***

Seamus, a ruddy, round-faced leprechaun, was out searching for food. He and the missus ate well, but she was so good to him that she deserved something special once in a while. Luckily, he knew what humans thought of leprechauns, which was why he ventured into the human’s woodshed one day. He’d watched this human, and knew he was a greedy, evil sort—one he could use nicely to make his plan work. So he made a grand racket in that woodshed.
When the human came to investigate, his eyes bugged out at the sight of Seamus. “You’re a leprechaun!” the human cried out.

“Yes, sir,” Seamus said, trembling before the big human. “Please, human, don’t eat me!”

“Take me to your gold, and I’ll spare your life,” the human said, his eyes sparkling with avarice. Seamus didn’t believe him for a moment.

They set off into the woods, the human dragging Seamus by the scruff of his neck. “Might ye loosen up a bit, sir?” Seamus said timidly, but the larger human only roughed him up some more with violent shaking.

“Not a chance!” he said. “No leprechaun is going to fool old Calvin!”

They marched on, Calvin occasionally asking if they were going in the right direction. Seamus would often point the way, and Calvin would change course. After a solid twenty minutes, Calvin said, “All right—where is it?”

“Almost there,” Seamus replied. The human’s pull on his neck was painful, but he endured it. “See, up ahead, through those bushes—the cave!”

They pushed through the bushes, and there, just inside the cave’s mouth, was a small iron kettle, overflowing with gold coins.

“It’s true!” Calvin cried. “Gold!”

He released Seamus and scampered for the pot. Seamus watched as he hefted the weighty thing and staggered out of the cave with it. “Sorry, leprechaun!” Calvin shouted with a laugh. “That’ll teach you to get caught!”

Then he set down the heavy pot, grabbed Seamus by the lapel, and pulled a knife from his belt. “Now you’ll die—and perhaps I’ll have you stuffed and mounted, so everyone can see!”

Just then, a rustling sounded from deeper in the cave, and a crowd of furry creatures shorter than Seamus appeared, uttering astounded cries.

“What’s this, Seamus?” said one.

“Oh, this nasty human made me lead him here,” Seamus said, pointing up at the bewildered Calvin. “He’s stealing your gold.”

“Bastard human!” they hissed, baring rows of razor-sharp teeth and extending dagger claws.

“We shall leave its carcass for the vultures!” the first one growled.

“No!” Calvin screamed, even as dozens of the fierce little creatures rushed out of the cave and swarmed toward him.

***

Seamus returned to his subterranean bungalow. He could smell sweet cider on the stove as his wife greeted him in the kitchen. She squealed with glee when she saw what he carried. “Oh, Seamus!” she cried. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Aye, thanks to the gremlins,” he said, dropping it on the table. “I said you deserved a special meal, me lovely bride, and here it is. He was a big one, lass.”

“Oh—you watched him first, didn’t you?” she said, her brow furrowing. “He’s an evil sort?”

“You have no idea,” Seamus said.

She went to work preparing the giant leg of human, and he grabbed himself a cider.

“From the Heart”
Horror
By David M. Fitzpatrick

My boyfriend, Jack, is crazy. I know that. I’m not stupid. Before we dated I heard about the guy he cut in a knife fight, the girls he cheated on, the car he stole, the drugs he did. But he truly and completely loves me. We changed each other—I changed him from his wicked ways, and he changed me from being the tormented prisoner of my parents.

Jack is crazy, but my father is pure evil. From the first time he came to my bed at midnight and told me that good little girls let their daddies touch them like that, I knew it. I remember crying, and how he whispered to shut the fuck up or he’d kill me. I remember each and very time. It was just touching at first, but eventually he got to taking off his clothes and rubbing against me until he soiled my belly. I was eight when he stuck his fingers in me. I was twelve when he stuck something else in me. I was fifteen when he took me for an abortion, to get rid of the evidence of his evils.

My mother always knew. Sometimes I’d go to her to tell her of the most recent violations—when he’d stepped up his game, taken it to the next level, and I figured that would be enough for her to finally act. But her answer was always the same—she’d say, “You have to be good to him. This is a special gift he’s giving you.”

I was seventeen when I realized my mother was as evil as he was. And I began seeing Jack that year. It didn’t last long; my father threw threw Jack out of the house when I brought him home, and then he beat me senseless. He screamed and called me a slut, a tramp, a worthless whore, punctuating every vile insult with another slap, a hit, a kick. And all the while, my mother sat there, calling out over his roaring that it was going to be all right, Lindsey; you have to respect your father, honey; that boy is no good for you, baby. The beating was a lesson, another special gift from Daddy.

I met Jack in private the next day, and told him everything—what had happened after my father had thrown him out, and everything that had happened since I was six. Way more than I’m telling you here—every sick, twisted moment of it, every disgusting thing I’d managed to survive. And Jack was stunned by all the bruises.

He said, “You need to leave them forever.”

I said, “He’ll never stop looking for me, and when he finds me, he’ll kill me. He’s destroyed my heart, and all I want is to destroy his. I just wish he was dead.”

I wasn’t trying to plant any seeds in Jack’s mind, honestly. But I guess that happened.

My father didn’t come home the next three nights. My mother was worried, calling around trying to figure out where he’d gone. When I saw Jack again, he had a paper bag and handed it to me.

He said, “You’ll probably hate me, but I had to do it.”

Inside the paper bag was a plastic bag. In that was a big chunk of bloody meat. I looked at him, not understanding.

Jack said, “I killed him, Lindsey. He was such an evil bastard—it was easy. That’s his heart, and now you can destroy it.”

I had dinner with my mother one last time. I fed her the heart, and told her it was a special gift. She thought it was delicious. When she was done, I whispered the truth in her ear. The last I saw, she was bawling and retching on the floor, clutching at her chest, as her own black heart died.

My boyfriend is crazy, but our love is pure and true. That deed was the greatest thing anyone ever did for me. I left home with Jack the next day, and never looked back.

“Sudden Virility”
Contemporary Fantasy/Adult
By David M. Fitzpatrick

It started out like a normal birthday. But that morning at work, Vanessa couldn’t keep her eyes off me. In fact, it seemed like every woman in the office was checking out my crotch or my ass. But Vanessa made every excuse to visit my desk, bend over to whisper to me so I could see her deep cleavage, or bend over on front of me in that short skirt. I thought it was just my lucky day until I went out for a cigarette and she followed me.

The next thing I knew, she’d dragged me around the back corner of the building and was on her knees, and I was getting the blowjob of my life. Not one to complain, I let her dirty her knees. And before it was over, she was bent over grabbing the Dumpster while I did her from behind. Not a romantic image, but who was I to complain?

I had to go on the road right afterward to see a client, a sexy older woman named Monica. And I’ll be damned if it didn’t happen again. Monica flirted like mad for twenty minutes until she locked her office door and threw herself at me. There I was, banging a client in her own office—two women in one morning. And I landed the contract, too.

Lunch involved a third woman whose name I never got. We met at a lunch counter and she lived in an apartment up the street. An hour and another ejaculation later—a bit strained by then, I should add—and I was back to work.

Vanessa demanded round two, but by then she’d apparently told two of her office BFFs, and the result was a four-way back-seat orgy in my car in the far reaches of the parking lot. It was pretty incredible. But by then I’d figured out what was going on. I mean, I hadn’t done too badly with the ladies in my life, but this was ridiculous. Before this birthday, I’d bedded eleven women since I was sixteen—about one every two years. Today, I’d already had five more. And when I stopped at the bookstore on the way home—yep, you guessed it, met another woman who was hornier than a brass ensemble. We actually screwed in the bookstore’s ladies’ room.

And you read about it in fake sex stories in magazines, but when the lady cop pulled me over for speeding and ended up going down on me at the side of the road, I realized that things had gone too far. I mean, there’s sexual conquest, and then there’s just plain silliness.

I swung by Deanna’s house to thank her for the well-meant gift. She was an old friend, more one of the guys than a woman. We met at a coven meeting six years before, and had become fast friends and great co-magicians. I’d always had feelings for her, but she’d always kept me gently as a distance. I never knew why. Maybe she didn’t, either.

“Thanks for the present,” I said. “I’ve never had this much sex in one day.”

She laughed, long and loud. “I worked hard on that spell. It’s a good one. Don’t worry; it will wear off by tomorrow. But if you want me to cast it again, I can.”

She was squirming in her chair, and I caught her checking out my junk. She caught me noticing. “Yeah, the spell even affects me. It’s all I can do to keep from jumping you. You’d better go.”

“Maybe I’ll stay,” I said. I was no dummy; she could have exempted herself from the spell. She hadn’t.

She fought the squirming a few moments longer before jumping me. It was supposed to be an innocent excuse—“The magic, you know—I couldn’t help myself.” But I knew better.

We ended up marrying. And wait until she gets a load of my birthday gift to her. Let’s just say it involves a clever spell and a spontaneous orgasm every time I said her name out loud. She’d be very happy with that one.

“Fruition to the Core”
Fantasy/Fairy Tale
By David M. Fitzpatrick
(First appeared in Twisted Tongue #9)

Elwin visited the one-eyed Mountain Witch, bringing every coin he had saved for years. “Forty-two silver,” the ancient hag rasped when he produced the coins. “Tell me of your desire.”

“I desire my true love,” Elwin said. “Melina and I have been together since we were children. Every day I looked into her eyes and told her how we would one day marry. I told her how, one day, she would bear me many fine sons. I told her of the home we would build in the hills, and the land we would farm, and how we would grow old together there. Always I promised her happiness. Forever would I provide for her.”

“How did she respond to these promises?” the witch asked, stroking her hairy chin.

“She never had to—our hearts have always been one,” Elwin said. “But now her father keeps us apart. He’s destroying us; I must have him out of our way. Blinded, maimed, banished, killed—it matters not.”

The witch considered this with her yellow eye for a brief eternity. “Give me a lock of your hair,” she said, “then sleep in my woodshed tonight, so that my spell may incubate.”

***

Elwin headed back the next morning, excited and impatient, with a magic apple in a small sack.

“The purer your love, the better the spell works,” the witch had said. “You must stand before her as you bite the apple and swallow it; only then will your relationship bear fruit.”

When he arrived at her home, her father refused to let him past the gate. Melina stood nervously behind the man; there were too many servants standing guard, so Elwin played it diplomatically. He dropped to his knees and cried out, “I beg of you, sir — allow me a final good-bye with your daughter. Then I shall leave; you’ll not see me again.”

The old man looked to Melina, who nodded and smiled. Reluctantly, he let Elwin pass. Elwin went to her, grinning broadly, and pulled the apple out. It was huge, blood-red with a dragon-green leaf, gleaming invitingly in the sun.

“Our dreams shall now come true,” he announced. “Since we were young, I told you how we would one day marry. I told you of the sons you would bear, of the hillside home and the land we would farm. I promised we’d grow old together. I promised you happiness. I promised always to provide for you.

“But your father interferes with our true love. But no longer, for the Mountain Witch has given me this magic apple—”

“The Mountain Witch!” Melina said, sucking in her breath. “Surely not! Her sorcerous powers are demon-given—”

“No—she is the one who has given me the means to set us free!” Elwin cried. “She is why our relationship will bear fruit!”

He brought the apple to his lips and inhaled its sweet perfection. It smelled like his mother’s kitchen in the autumn when she’d peel and core hundreds of apples to make pies, sauce, and butter. It was paradise.

He took a huge, juicy bite, and it tasted perfect. The exposed white flesh gleamed like fresh snow. He chewed vigorously as Melina watched with wide eyes. When he finally swallowed, the apple quickly rotted, the flesh turning brown and the skin maroon. It shriveled into a dried black husk, and he tossed it aside, laughing.

And then he realized he couldn’t move. “Melina,” he croaked. “What’s happening?”

His body felt wooden; his feet felt as if mired in deep mud. He couldn’t blink or breathe. Couldn’t talk.

Melina came close and leaned in, and he couldn’t smell her perfume. But he heard her. “Every day, you told me how we would marry, but you never asked me to marry you,” she whispered. “You told me of the sons I would bear, but never asked if I wanted to bear them. You spoke of farmland and a hillside home, and assumed I wanted the same.”

She stepped back, and his eyes were frozen in their sockets. Her voice seemed distant, muffled. “You promised we would grow old together, and that I would be happy. I never wanted to be with you, Elwin, and you could never make me happy. You cared only for yourself, and the idea of owning me. Your selfishness has given you just what you wanted: Our relationship will finally bear fruit. And one thing you always promised will come true.”

That was the last thing Elwin ever heard or saw or knew, but his metamorphosis continued for hours.

***

By the next season, the new tree was monstrously large, producing enough fruit to feed Melina and her entire family through any winter.

It always provided for Melina, for as long as she lived.

“The Perfect Present”
Science Fiction
By David M. Fitzpatrick

A clear sky, impossibly blue. White snow, pure and clean and blanketing everything in sight. Icicles hanging from evergreens like glass glinting in the sun. A car moving slowly, taking care on the slippery country road. Wisps of smoke curling cheerfully up from distant chimneys.

He breathed deeply, savoring the feel of the crisp air chilling his lungs. He stood on the porch, surveying the idyllic scene, and he knew it would only get better. He smiled, turned, opened the door, entered the house. A blast of cozy air warmed him, and the smell of baking bread and simmering stew followed.

“Daddy!” he heard the little girl’s voice from the other room. “Daddy’s home!”

Scampering feet, like a herd of animals, and his four children tore out of the living room. Two young daughters, two older sons, ages six to twelve. The excited, little-girl squeals sounded as the group rushed him in the hallway, colliding with him in a flurry of hugs and shouts of happiness. He wrapped his arms around them, and wished he had more arms.

And then his wife rushed from the kitchen, apron on, wiping her hands on a towel, and she cried out in excitement much as their daughters had. She leaped into the crowd, finding her way to her husband for the hug of all hugs, and when she kissed him it was the greatest feeling he’d ever known. The feel of her full, soft lips pressing against his, the grip of her hands on his back—he’d missed it so much.

They guided him into the living room, where a crackling fire blazed on the hearth, and seated him by the tree. It was decorated as it always had been, with twinkling colored lights, shiny ornaments, sparkling garland. The star atop it was her great-great grandmother’s, first adorning the family tree nearly two centuries before. It was Christmas with his family, and it was perfect.

The kids scurried to the mountain of presents under the tree, wrapped in bright paper with happy designs of Santa and elves and snowmen and angels, tied with colorful bows and curly ribbons. They dug through the gifts, each choosing one to unwrap on Christmas Eve. His wife cuddled up to him on the couch, squeezing his arm tightly.

“We’ve missed you so much,” she said. “You’ve been gone for so long. And that planet is so far from Earth.”

“I’ve only survived because I’ve thought of you,” he said. “All of you—you keep me sane there.”

“It must be lonely on an alien world, all alone,” she said.

“It is,” he whispered. “But this is the greatest gift a man could have.”

Outside, the blue sky flickered green for a moment. The white snow vanished, reappeared.

“No,” he said, sitting up.

Flicker. Fade. The scene around him faltered. He watched in shock as his kids vanished. His wife followed suit. The house dissolved away. Earth disappeared.

He sat, alone, in the small chamber. He leapt up, burst out the door, checked the control panel. It was a temporary power fluctuation; the life-support system had needed a boost, and the imaging chamber was, of course, beholden to that. He sighed. Thank goodness.

He glanced out the window at the orange sky, a green-hued sun burning through the poisonous atmosphere. Another two years here. Two years without her. Two years of missing their childhoods.

“Reset,” he told the computer.

The screen lit up with his wife’s beautiful face. The kids were crowded around, all squeezing into the frame.

“Merry Christmas, honey!” she said. “We love you and we miss you. Come home safe, and soon. Until then, we hope this holoprogram will make you happy.”

The kids called out their love for him, and he looked into her sad eyes. The smile was there, but her eyes were sad.

“I miss you, too,” he whispered.

Then he stepped back into the imaging chamber, back into the fantasy he preferred over reality.

David M. Fitzpatrick is a fiction writer in Maine, USA. His many short-stories have appeared in print magazines and anthologies around the world. He writes for a newspaper, writes fiction, edits anthologies and teaches creative writing. Visit him at www.fitz42.net/writer to learn more.