Twelve Tales of Christmas: Fantasy and Contemporary Tales to Brighten Your Holidays

By Cathleen Townsend

Christmas isn't always Jingle Bells and "Ho, ho, ho." In these Twelve Tales of Christmas, Santa has to deal with unexpected German shepherds and reindeer who suddenly want to learn the tango. A dryad works feverishly with a teenage boy to save her tree, now in a stand in his living room, and everyone begs Death to hold off for just one more day.

And no one knows what to do with an the fire-breathing dragon. He's not going on the Christmas card list anytime soon.

Come enter worlds of beauty and dread. Join a house hob as he raises his cup of eggnog high, and enjoy yuletide yarns delicious enough to tempt even St. Nick.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathleen Townsend
• Release date: Nov 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370930012

Cathleen Townsend

Cathleen Townsend discovered fairy tales as a child and never outgrew them. She lives in California gold country with her husband and two dogs, as well as a horse who’s firmly convinced that he’s the real top dog and a cat who’s sure he can take on any dog, anytime. Cathleen can be contacted at cathleentownsend.com, and she tweets @CathleenTowns.

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Twelve Tales of Christmas:

Fantasy and Contemporary Stories to Brighten Your Holidays

Cathleen Townsend

Copyright © 2017 Cathleen Townsend

All rights reserved.

Published by Phoenix Flight Press

This book is comprised of works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art by Cathleen Townsend, final design and font by Deranged Doctor Design.

For my grandmother, Mildred Evelyn Kears:

You always welcomed everyone to your Christmas celebrations, so they never had to spend the holiday alone. And when I was far away you always sent gifts, so there would be something for me under the tree.

Thank you so much for that, Grandma. I still miss you.

Acknowledgments

I can’t thank my beta reader friends enough. Their generous input has improved these tales far beyond what I could have achieved on my own.

To Aaron Perry, Todd Strube, Diana Wallace Peach, Teresa Karlinski, J.D. Burns, Paul and Marachelle Shipman, as well as the intrepid critiquers of Absolute Write’s Share Your Work, who applied their talents to most of these stories individually:

My deepest thanks. I will forever be in your debt.

Contents

The Gift

Eggnog and Cookies

Department Store Santa

The Angel in the Tree

Holiday Movie

Kelly's Christmas

Trip to Tahoe

Holiday for Death

Snowman

Christmas Tango

Snowflake

Dragon Yule

Stolen Legacy excerpt

About the Author

The Gift

Alisha set the table and lit her red candles, her dark, wrinkled hands quivering as she blew out the match. A roasted chicken filled her nicest platter, and she’d arranged her silverware on a red cloth napkin. She was doing her best to make the holiday special, but the entire day had been a series of going through the motions.

She’d gone to mass that morning, smiling at all the people with families and radiant faces. She could have stopped for coffee afterward, but she didn’t like making other people work on Christmas.

When she’d eaten, Alisha washed the few dishes. Treacherous memories reared their heads as her fingers dipped into the warm, soapy water. Watching her children open their gifts as the joy from their laughter filled the house. Feeling their arms tighten around her as they said how much they loved her. It had always been a day-long marathon of love, food, and gifts. There had never been enough time—the hours flew past on reindeer feet.

No more. When Ed was still alive, it had been…okay. That’s when the two of them had started having chicken instead of turkey. What would they have done with a whole turkey? Afterward, they’d watched movies together, played cards, and opened each other’s gifts.

She’d have never guessed she would miss his snores so much. If nothing else, they’d masked the sound of her neighbors. While grateful for the roof over her head, Alisha fervently wished the walls were thicker. She turned on the television and played A Christmas Carol to drown out the man in number six calling his girlfriend a slut.

It was a relief when the sun set—now she could get ready for bed. She carefully hung up her thrift store find from last week, a still-pretty floral skirt with only a small stain near the hem. She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand and sighed as the water relaxed her back muscles.

When she returned to her small living room, clad in blue flannel pajamas, a box wrapped in green paper with a bright red bow sat on her coffee table. Alisha gasped and leaned against the door frame, her eyes darting around the room. No one else had a key except the manager, a young gal in her forties who minded her own business. Alisha’s breaths came hard and fast, and she staggered to her old tweed couch.

No one else was in the bathroom or bedroom—she’d just come from there. Her tiny front room and kitchen held no hiding places. She was alone. The knowledge was both a relief and a crushing despair.

Her eyes devoured the gift. She’d bought a present to donate at church and told herself that was enough. Christmas was a time to give. Besides, the one thing she truly wanted she couldn’t afford—an apartment that would let her keep a small dog or cat. Someone to love again. She turned her mind firmly away from thoughts of her children. That way led only to tears.

Slowly, with trembling hands, she untied the velvety bow. The nap caught against her fingers, and she brushed it against her cheek. Grandma had used ribbon like this. She’d always had the knack of making perfect bows. Alisha had tried, but she could never quite equal Grandma’s display. She could still hear Grandma’s voice as she plucked a gift from the beribboned pile, saying, Now, Alisha honey, it’s your turn. I hope you like it.

The brightly wrapped package had always contained clothes, often a hand-knitted sweater or poncho. And she’d always kissed Grandma’s cheek and told her she loved it. Grandma would smile as Alisha put the ribbon back in her hand to be used next year. Grandma would iron it later.

Funny to think that Grandma had been younger then than Alisha was now.

The box’s lid was wrapped separately. All she had to do was lift the top off. Her heart thudded, and she scrubbed a tear from her face. It was just a gift. A small kindness. Nothing to get so worked up about.

She lifted the lid slowly and sniffed. Cinnamon. And…spring grass? She pushed the lid aside and her lips curved as the warmth of sunshine caressed her face. Was that a tree swing on that hill behind the cottage? A dog barked, and Alisha stood. She took one halting step into the scene and then another. A collie bounded up and licked her hand. She stroked its soft fur and followed it to a gray shingled house, where the smell of spiced cider wafted out onto the porch.

Back in the apartment, the lid rose and settled firmly on the box. The ribbon tied itself back into a perfect bow. The package paused for a moment, as if regarding the neat, shabby room.

And then it was gone.

Eggnog and Cookies

Five-year-old Moira set the glass of milk carefully beside the cookies on the table. Her mother smiled and asked, Aren’t you going to leave a note for Santa?

Moira shook her head and ran to find Corlan, who was not at all a run-of-the-mill friend. He was less than four feet tall and well over a hundred years old. But since Moira’s mom believed fairy tales belonged squarely between the covers of a book, except for the curious exception of Santa, she was never informed of the brownie’s existence.

I left milk and cookies out, Moira told Corlan proudly when she caught up to him by the barn. "They’re supposed to be for Santa, but I want you to have them. Because brownies are real." Santa was clearly not included in this category.

Corlan bowed and doffed his brown cap, his gesture sweeping below the knees of his wool breeches. I suppose if I get Santa’s reward, I should see to his task, he said lightly. He’d already meticulously painted a carved wooden doll. He’d also stitched the green calico dress and fashioned the wig to match Moira’s chestnut locks. The doll was waiting in the attic until he could surprise her with it later.

What are we going to play today? Moira asked with sparkling brown eyes.

Hmm. We could take a walk, and I could tell you the story of Snow White and Rose Red.

I thought you might take me riding, Moira said, clearly hoping for more than a tale.

Corlan’s sides shook with suppressed laughter. Better save that sort of thing for a moonlit night. If sneaking out to ride her pony was a crime, Moira was a hardened criminal. By now she’d had so much practice, she was nearly as quiet climbing out the window as he was.

Corlan approved. Obedience was all well and good, but it could be taken too far. Moira was safe with him, and a little real magic was a priceless gift.

Moira’s father strode through the dining room and paused as he considered the offering on the table. Cookies neatly arranged on a holly-patterned china plate and a tall glass of milk. It was supposed to be the perfect combination, but if his wife got up later to set out presents, she deserved to have eggnog instead of milk. And if he ended up doing it, he definitely wanted eggnog. He ate one of the chocolate-chip cookies and drained the milk, but he left a cup of eggnog in its place.

Corlan would have plenty of time to see to his Christmas preparations; Moira’s family was visiting her grandparents until late. He arranged the new doll’s dress just so, then laid a glamour over it, that no one should see it until morning. Moira had laid out a dark green knitted scarf for him, tied with a red ribbon, and he smiled as he wrapped it around his neck.

Then he made his way on scarce-heard feet to the dining table, where he broke into a few jig steps. He loved chocolate chip cookies. And there was a cup of milk to go with them—the perfect companion.

In his life Corlan had experienced many things, but never Moira’s father’s rum-laced eggnog. "I guess it’s mostly milk," he said, putting the cup down. The spices were nice, but the sharp burning taste made him gasp and blink his eyes.

Five minutes later, Corlan staggered to the navy blue couch and collapsed, his dignity in tatters. He could trick sight, sound, and smell—a consummate master of the senses—but he couldn’t rely on his own eyes right now. The room canted at an angle, as if he were on a ship instead of dry ground.

A cold gust of air informed him that something else was amiss. He turned his head, and what he beheld was alarming.

A large section of the picture window disappeared, pulled to one side. The moon shone on a slender man, clad