Jane stepped into my hallway and shook the snow from her shoulders. “I love your tree,” she said, running her hand along a branch. The president of the flower arranging club in my house! Her nostrils flared, searching for the absent scent of pine. She smiled at the children’s decorations. #WriteCBC

A spider floats on gossamer thread between the hissing gaslights. Shadows flit over the jury bench, beeswax polish briefly comforting. The web picks up speed. A sharp breeze works its way through the glass doors to the balcony. They bang open. It has begun. #WriteCBC

Mum’s eyes flutter shut, her breathing ragged and stuttering. Going through her drawer for a tissue I hit on an unknown metal cross. Wrapping the chain around my little finger I drop it in her hand.
The corners of her mouth twitch upwards. “Gott Schuetze Dich,” she croaks, “He’s here!” #WriteCBC

Is it on my TBR shelf?

George scratched his beard and pulled a long moustache hair into the corner of his mouth. ‘Why did she tell you and not me?’ He asked his mother. ‘I’m an accepting sort of chap, the definition of woke.’
‘Now George, you can’t blame her. Remember zitgate? And this is a tail.’

#WriteCBC

Thudding in my chest threatens to break the spell. I lie still. Hoping. Sour beer breath re-warms my cheek. I miss it, even though my heart is attempting to escape through my ribs, thinking of the last time we were together. I squeeze my eyes tight against the viscous crimson vision. #WriteCBC

‘Thank you, Ella,’ Santa said, shaking his boots free from the ice that had melted from around her Mum’s heart.
‘Twenty years!’ Her mum pouted and stamped her foot.
‘You wouldn’t let me show you,’ he protested. ‘Your parents are always with you. They’re in your heart. See!’
#5ActFestiveStory

Ella stared the Ijirak directly in the eye, her blood turning to ice. The child-catching monster’s eyes glowed a red that matched the dying embers in the grate. A log added. Warmth spread through the room and the creature morphed into her apologetic dad.
‘I was gone too long.’

#5ActFestiveStory

‘Not again,’ her mum growled, ‘Dads are supposed to be for life, not just Christmas.’
Ella thought of her Poppa; how she sat on his knee, stroked his white beard and leaned into his soft toffee-filled belly. The dead don’t send postcards, though, do they? #5ActFestiveStory

She pressed the card to her nose for clues. Wet dog, oranges and a faint smell of a cologne she recognised from childhood. Flipping the card revealed a photograph of a beach. Blue sky, warm sands and happy memories. She smiled. #5ActFestiveStory