Krampusnacht: Twelve Nights of Krampus by Mark Mills, Kate Wolford, Guy Burtenshaw, Jill Corddry, Elise Forier Edie, Patrick Evans, Scott Farrell, Caren Gussoff, Lissa Sloan, Elizabeth Twist
Authors: Mark Mills, Kate Wolford, Guy Burtenshaw, Jill Corddry, Elise Forier Edie, Patrick Evans, Scott Farrell, Caren Gussoff, Lissa Sloan, Elizabeth Twist
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drawing room, Mrs. Pennyrake smiled, just enough to provoke the appearance of the celebrated dimple, and she allowed Mr. Redfern to draw her arm through his. She was awfully fond of Christmas.
* * *
Lissa Sloan spent a year as book reviewer for Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine. Her poems and short stories are published or forthcoming in Enchanted Conversation and Specter Spectacular II: 13 Deathly Tales. She also writes and illustrates for younger readers.
Seventh Night of Krampus: “Santa Claus and the Little Girl Who Loved to Sing and Dance”
by Patrick Evans
Inspiration : The first time Patrick Evans ever heard the name ‘Krampus’ was in this anthology’s call for submissions. It was obvious to him that Krampus was all the anger Santa Claus had been repressing for centuries. Nobody can be that relentlessly nice without eventually snapping and growing claws.
“My name is Kandi Kane and I’m eight years old,” she said. Her voice, with its studied lisp, oozed like icing onto a gingerbread house. “I’m a triple threat because I can sing, dance, and act, and everyone says I have perfect comic timing. Comic timing can’t be taught, you know.”
“My, but you’re a big girl, too,” Santa said, wincing in pain. Kandi had wrapped her python of an arm around his neck to prevent gravity from dragging her massive body off his lap. His bad hip was like a log in a fire, shot through with crackling red and yellow veins of flame.
It was late November. Santa’s mall tour.
Kandi gave him a flat look of frosty condemnation, her bleach-blonde ringlets framing a heavily made-up face whose features seemed altogether too tightly squeezed together into one tiny central region. “You’re Santa. You’re not allowed to call little girls fat,” Kandi said, one eyebrow arching. “You just damaged my self-esteem.”
Santa didn’t like thinking nasty thoughts but this time he couldn’t help himself. The girl’s face looked like an arsehole. Literally, an arsehole, a puckering little circle of nastiness in a fat pillow of butt cheek. Santa’s guts twisted at the very thought. It was a sign of how far he had fallen that he could make such a cruel observation about a child.
“I haven’t eaten a carbohydrate since I was six,” Kandi said, “but the fact is I’m big-boned, and big girls only get funny fat-kid supporting roles and that’s the tragedy of my existence, because I was born to be a leading lady. So you have to give me double this year for calling me a fatty.”
There was no way this kid was eight-years-old. Easily 11 or 12. Too old to be working him in a mall. Santa felt his pulse quicken with anger, and the fog—that infernal fog and the horrors it portended—rolled into his head again. Thickening.
Santa had been assured the fog was purely psychological. But he could actually feel it in his head, filling his skull, tickling the surface until it rolled over the inner surface of his eyes and obscured his vision. And the fog didn’t just dull his eyesight. It stole his omniscience. The longer distances were lost and he could no longer see who was naughty or nice. There, in his Enchanted Castle at the Rutherford Plaza, he could barely see the pimply teenage attendants the mall hired, with their skinny long legs in green elf-tights. He could barely see the long bloated lineup of impatient parents and screaming kids.
And then, as he felt Kandi squeeze him harder, pressing her cheek to his and smiling brilliantly, the grey pall over his eyes was torn by three blinding flashes of light in quick succession.
A large woman stood at the foot of his throne. She was an adult version of Kandi. She wore her hair the same way, only her face was lined with age and worry. She was conducting three men, hired professional photographers, who were positioned around the throne. Two standing, one kneeling.
“Smile, Santa,” the woman called to him. “Keep smiling. Keep chatting. All very natural.” The
* * *
Lissa Sloan spent a year as book reviewer for Enchanted Conversation: A Fairy Tale Magazine. Her poems and short stories are published or forthcoming in Enchanted Conversation and Specter Spectacular II: 13 Deathly Tales. She also writes and illustrates for younger readers.
Seventh Night of Krampus: “Santa Claus and the Little Girl Who Loved to Sing and Dance”
by Patrick Evans
Inspiration : The first time Patrick Evans ever heard the name ‘Krampus’ was in this anthology’s call for submissions. It was obvious to him that Krampus was all the anger Santa Claus had been repressing for centuries. Nobody can be that relentlessly nice without eventually snapping and growing claws.
“My name is Kandi Kane and I’m eight years old,” she said. Her voice, with its studied lisp, oozed like icing onto a gingerbread house. “I’m a triple threat because I can sing, dance, and act, and everyone says I have perfect comic timing. Comic timing can’t be taught, you know.”
“My, but you’re a big girl, too,” Santa said, wincing in pain. Kandi had wrapped her python of an arm around his neck to prevent gravity from dragging her massive body off his lap. His bad hip was like a log in a fire, shot through with crackling red and yellow veins of flame.
It was late November. Santa’s mall tour.
Kandi gave him a flat look of frosty condemnation, her bleach-blonde ringlets framing a heavily made-up face whose features seemed altogether too tightly squeezed together into one tiny central region. “You’re Santa. You’re not allowed to call little girls fat,” Kandi said, one eyebrow arching. “You just damaged my self-esteem.”
Santa didn’t like thinking nasty thoughts but this time he couldn’t help himself. The girl’s face looked like an arsehole. Literally, an arsehole, a puckering little circle of nastiness in a fat pillow of butt cheek. Santa’s guts twisted at the very thought. It was a sign of how far he had fallen that he could make such a cruel observation about a child.
“I haven’t eaten a carbohydrate since I was six,” Kandi said, “but the fact is I’m big-boned, and big girls only get funny fat-kid supporting roles and that’s the tragedy of my existence, because I was born to be a leading lady. So you have to give me double this year for calling me a fatty.”
There was no way this kid was eight-years-old. Easily 11 or 12. Too old to be working him in a mall. Santa felt his pulse quicken with anger, and the fog—that infernal fog and the horrors it portended—rolled into his head again. Thickening.
Santa had been assured the fog was purely psychological. But he could actually feel it in his head, filling his skull, tickling the surface until it rolled over the inner surface of his eyes and obscured his vision. And the fog didn’t just dull his eyesight. It stole his omniscience. The longer distances were lost and he could no longer see who was naughty or nice. There, in his Enchanted Castle at the Rutherford Plaza, he could barely see the pimply teenage attendants the mall hired, with their skinny long legs in green elf-tights. He could barely see the long bloated lineup of impatient parents and screaming kids.
And then, as he felt Kandi squeeze him harder, pressing her cheek to his and smiling brilliantly, the grey pall over his eyes was torn by three blinding flashes of light in quick succession.
A large woman stood at the foot of his throne. She was an adult version of Kandi. She wore her hair the same way, only her face was lined with age and worry. She was conducting three men, hired professional photographers, who were positioned around the throne. Two standing, one kneeling.
“Smile, Santa,” the woman called to him. “Keep smiling. Keep chatting. All very natural.” The
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