Old Father Christmas

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A delightfully cheery, whimsical tale of life.

Submitted: November 30, 2011

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Submitted: November 30, 2011



The foxes yelped in the night, sounding like forlorn mothers wailing. The haunting notes lingered in the air like a morose melody. Loneliness stalked the night, creeping into the safety of homes, under the warmth of wool blankets, into the dreams of slumbering youths. Tears stained their cheeks as they slept, even the innocence of childhood marred by the sorrow of the darkness. Winter had fallen across the land, and the cold winds rushed down the dark alleyway. With the snow came famine and disease, and the cold, hard earth was bloated with the rotting corpses of the dead.


The man sat, brooding, staring helplessly as his son whimpered weakly is his sleep. The plague had taken its toll, and his son’s legs were rendered useless as the skin has rotted away. The putrid stench of rotting flesh lingered in the air, the smell of Death, of the mercy that was denied to his suffering son.


He got to his feet, slowly, the chill on the room stinging his stiff joints. He closed the door to his son’s room and ran out into the snow covered fields.


He screamed desperately into the night, each syllable casting white mist into the air.




“Father Christmas, Father Christmas, i know that you’re there, tell me why my life is so filled with despair. Father Christmas, Father Christmas, please ease my plight, you must bring an end to this terrible night.”


It was then he appeared in a flurry of snow, laughing whilst shaking his head to and fro.


“Dry you tears, if you will, my sad little friend, they will not help bring this night to an end”  


“Father Christmas, you’re here, tell me all that you know, but please come inside, lets get out of the snow”


Scared Father Christmas would think him a liar; he invited him in to stand next to the fire.


“I wish i could give you a gift you could use, it pains me to hear such horrible news”


“Father Christmas, i beg you, please end his pain, do it now whilst i can pretend to be sane.”


It was then Father Christmas confirmed the man’s fear, he explained to the man he could not interfere.


The man sprinted to the room like a man on the run, picked a pillow and smothered his son. As his son’s body lay lifeless, so small on the bed, it finally struck him that his boy was dead. Father Christmas had vanished, back into the night, so the man grabbed a candle, and set himself alight.


Merry Christmas.



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