Read Online The Undead That Saved Christmas Vol. 2 by ed. Lyle Perez-Tinics - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: ed. Lyle Perez-Tinics
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almost thirty short stories published or accepted for publishing in various anthologies in US and UK. October of this year will see the release of her first, solo collection of short stories to be entitled 'Red Wine and Words,' achieving a lifelong dream.
The Last Christmas
By Emma Ennis
Michael was sick. Terminal they said. Incurable they said. At first Harry Kinsey refused to accept it; that his Tiny Mikey would be taken from him. His wife, Catherine, had humored this denial until Christmas was just around the corner.
“We have to face facts, Harry,” she said. “There's a good chance this will be Mikey's last Christmas. We have to make it the best.”
Harry didn't like the facts. But he could not change them. He had to put on the show--the brave face— for his son who did not understand. Every evening he asked the same question, “Daddy why am I dying?”
“We're all dying son.” Harry's vague answer never quite managed to soothe the lump that rose in his throat.
“But you're old.” The kid was smart. And blunt. “You're not dying like me.”
“Life is shorter for some than it is for others,” he tried, struggling to keep the tears at bay. “It's just the way the world works, son.”
What else could he say? Tiny Mikey asked questions his parents could not answer. How could they explain to him that God wasn't cruel ? That he took the ones he loved the most early, because he could not wait to be with them? How could they lie, when nightly, in place of prayers, they cursed that very God for his cruelty, for taking their only child before they'd had a chance to truly enjoy him? Six years? They had hardly even gotten to know him.
* * *
The whole world was sick it seemed. Old Mrs. Crawford from next door had not stepped out in almost a month. Every day for two weeks Dr. Shelborne had called to the house, and then he stopped coming. Maybe she was on the mend, Catherine said.
And Mr. Prior, the bald butcher. Catherine had been talking to his missus, and she told her he was laid up, had been for nearly a week. Catherine had not seen his missus for days now; they presumed she had caught it too.
Mr. Cox the greengrocer, young Stacey Smith, the school mistress, Miss Brigsby, the old widower Gordon who owned the big farm on the edge of town, all had caught the mysterious virus. But the Kinsey family had not the time to dwell on the pandemic; they had a Christmas to plan for. Everything became about that Christmas. No plans were made for anything beyond. It was like doomsday – all roads led up to it, none left from it.
The bird had been ordered, big and fat. The tree had been selected from the market, bigger and fatter. There were red bows to decorate it, multicolored baubles, twinkling lights by the hundreds. The works.
Santa had a flashing sign at the end of the driveway to direct him. Tiny Mikey had written his letter, checked it twice, and stuffed it up the chimney to be collected. Harry and Catherine had read it the same night, their foreheads crinkling as they scanned the long list of expensive gifts. But money was no object that year. Mikey might not have the gifts for long, but by God, he would play with them on December twenty-fifth.
Daily, great stacks of wrapped and ribboned presents were carted in and placed under the gargantuan tree. Shopping bags bristling with nuts and fruits and other delectables, were unloaded onto the cupboard shelves. In the evening Christmas puddings rattled as they boiled in their pots. The cake was baked and iced; tiny little figurines skated around the frozen pond decorated atop. The table was set. Sparkly napkins were folded in place, candelabra populated, crackers lined up, waiting to be pulled.
So immersed were they in their preparations that they did not notice what was going on in the village around them. Until it drew so close to Christmas that they could not overlook it any longer.
Harry was the first to notice. It was the night of the twenty-first, and he
The Last Christmas
By Emma Ennis
Michael was sick. Terminal they said. Incurable they said. At first Harry Kinsey refused to accept it; that his Tiny Mikey would be taken from him. His wife, Catherine, had humored this denial until Christmas was just around the corner.
“We have to face facts, Harry,” she said. “There's a good chance this will be Mikey's last Christmas. We have to make it the best.”
Harry didn't like the facts. But he could not change them. He had to put on the show--the brave face— for his son who did not understand. Every evening he asked the same question, “Daddy why am I dying?”
“We're all dying son.” Harry's vague answer never quite managed to soothe the lump that rose in his throat.
“But you're old.” The kid was smart. And blunt. “You're not dying like me.”
“Life is shorter for some than it is for others,” he tried, struggling to keep the tears at bay. “It's just the way the world works, son.”
What else could he say? Tiny Mikey asked questions his parents could not answer. How could they explain to him that God wasn't cruel ? That he took the ones he loved the most early, because he could not wait to be with them? How could they lie, when nightly, in place of prayers, they cursed that very God for his cruelty, for taking their only child before they'd had a chance to truly enjoy him? Six years? They had hardly even gotten to know him.
* * *
The whole world was sick it seemed. Old Mrs. Crawford from next door had not stepped out in almost a month. Every day for two weeks Dr. Shelborne had called to the house, and then he stopped coming. Maybe she was on the mend, Catherine said.
And Mr. Prior, the bald butcher. Catherine had been talking to his missus, and she told her he was laid up, had been for nearly a week. Catherine had not seen his missus for days now; they presumed she had caught it too.
Mr. Cox the greengrocer, young Stacey Smith, the school mistress, Miss Brigsby, the old widower Gordon who owned the big farm on the edge of town, all had caught the mysterious virus. But the Kinsey family had not the time to dwell on the pandemic; they had a Christmas to plan for. Everything became about that Christmas. No plans were made for anything beyond. It was like doomsday – all roads led up to it, none left from it.
The bird had been ordered, big and fat. The tree had been selected from the market, bigger and fatter. There were red bows to decorate it, multicolored baubles, twinkling lights by the hundreds. The works.
Santa had a flashing sign at the end of the driveway to direct him. Tiny Mikey had written his letter, checked it twice, and stuffed it up the chimney to be collected. Harry and Catherine had read it the same night, their foreheads crinkling as they scanned the long list of expensive gifts. But money was no object that year. Mikey might not have the gifts for long, but by God, he would play with them on December twenty-fifth.
Daily, great stacks of wrapped and ribboned presents were carted in and placed under the gargantuan tree. Shopping bags bristling with nuts and fruits and other delectables, were unloaded onto the cupboard shelves. In the evening Christmas puddings rattled as they boiled in their pots. The cake was baked and iced; tiny little figurines skated around the frozen pond decorated atop. The table was set. Sparkly napkins were folded in place, candelabra populated, crackers lined up, waiting to be pulled.
So immersed were they in their preparations that they did not notice what was going on in the village around them. Until it drew so close to Christmas that they could not overlook it any longer.
Harry was the first to notice. It was the night of the twenty-first, and he
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