Hugh J. O'Donnell

The duchess sat in her feast hall, sipping a glass of wine.
Last night, the long table had been piled high with sought-after delicacies and rare vintages. It remained so this morning.
Not a single guest had arrived for her feast, and she did not know what that meant. She had long been a player in court politics and was no stranger to intrigue, but to be so utterly abandoned was an unexpected puzzle, and she feared what it meant.
She despaired until a servant entered and opened the grand windows, revealing a blizzard that had covered the kingdom overnight.

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The Krampus was tired.
He’d been doing his job for a long time. He didn’t mind that. Krampus had no problems with being the bad guy, and someone had to be the stick, so to speak, to Saint Nicholas’s carrot. But you can only play the monster for so long before you become one in truth.
One year Krampus hung up his birch rod and stayed home. Nicholas complained about it. He said that the children would run wild without him.
But the holiday passed as it always had.
Krampus breathed a sigh of relief, finally able to enjoy Christmas.

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Santa Claus was magic. It came with a cost: a mission to be completed once a year. Throughout history, he did as he was bid, bringing every good child a present in a single night.
Humanity grew and expanded, and Santa’s operation grew alongside them. He created flying reindeer and a team of magical toymakers to assist him in his work.
It was hard, but he managed.
But then humanity spread into space, colonizing the Moon and Mars. Santa could feel the tug of his mission pulling him out into the void. He knew he had to up his game.

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When the monsters came, every able-bodied townsperson went out to fight. The children and the elderly took shelter inside the cathedral, and the old monk was among them. He sat among what they could rescue from the monastery library and did his best to keep the urchins from touching the valuable books, grumbling all the while.
Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting roar, and the whole building shook. The monk smelled brimstone. The children wailed in terror.
He sighed. “Who wants to hear a story?”
The library was their history, but the children were their future, and he would protect both.

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The monk waited for me at the top of the temple steps. Built into the side of the canyon, they led to a viewing platform that overlooked the waterfall.
A pair of guardian statues flanked the top, patched with patina. They stood on masses of old pipes that seemed to write like serpents beneath their heels.
“There used to be a massive factory here,” he said. “It diverted the falls for power and dumped waste into the river below. We kept the pipes as a reminder.”
“A reminder of what?”
“That it is never too late to change one’s ways.”

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The Witch of Winter went about her work, chilling the forest and frosting the bare trees. She summoned icy wind and glittering snow. The Autumnal Fairies had done their work, and the blazing red leaves crunched under her feet as she walked, bringing their reign to a close.
Every year the work was more difficult. Winter was just a little farther away as the humans believed more in their hot, noisy machines and less in magic. The forest was more resistant to her touch.
But she continued, undaunted. Nature required balance, and she would demonstrate in brilliant silver and white.

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On Christmas morning, Monica’s new pet was cute. It pounced on the discarded wrapping and took scraps from her plate. She named him Prancer.
As the months went by, they were inseparable. Monica taught Prancer tricks, and it slept at the foot of her bed. She took great care of her new friend. Her parents were pleased that she had learned to be so responsible.
But as Prancer continued to grow, it became apparent that it didn’t have enough space, and her parents steeled themselves for a difficult conversation.
A dragon isn’t just for Christmas but a pet for life.

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The folded, printed letter had been slipped into the mailbox of the old house on the hill. The occupants gathered round to read it.
“Congratulations!” The eldest of them read in a voice like steel scraping over stone. “Your house has won this year’s Scrooge Award for the fewest decorations!!!”
The ghosts all looked at one another. No living soul had lived there for a long time, and time is so much harder to track once you’ve passed on.
But they all knew what spirits were supposed to do on Christmas. The sender was about to have a magical evening.

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