Holiday Madness

A festive collection of prizewinning stories with a holiday theme from our writing contest, including stories by:

RD Larson, Grand Prize Winner Rafael Girot Kris Neri Jo Rockhill Linda Peet Joyce Dennis ISBN 1-59431-146-3 Short Stories/ Paranormal

Cover Art by Maggie Dix



Showtime on the Winter Solstice by Kris Neri

Does everything happen at random, or does it all come together for a reason? I wonder that sometimes. Not now, mind you. Creepy questions like those were for the dead of night—for those sleepless hours when shadows climb the bedroom walls and the roof cries out in creaks and moans—not stormy winter afternoons drawing too rapidly to a close.

Not long ago such thoughts would never have occurred to me. I’m a good-time girl and proud of it. I always thought supernatural concerns were strictly the province of the terminally-gullible, and karma, just a nightclub in West Hollywood. Not such a startling admission, perhaps, except when you take into account that I make the lion’s share of my totally inadequate income by working as a Spiritual Advisor to the most gullible among them. What can I say? Consistency is overrated in my opinion. I was saving it for my next life, now that I’d heard I’d be having one.

But as you probably notice, I digress.

Anyway, like I said, I never thought about those things until the goddess entered my life. Though strictly speaking, it wasn’t accurate to say she entered my life—more like I crashed into hers.

The goddess, herself, paced anxiously before me now, until I feared she’d wear a path in the new carpet I put down on the hardwood living room floor of the guesthouse I rented in Santa Monica, California. Awfully earthbound of her, I know, but Annabelle Haggerty is as much flesh-and-blood as you and me. And she isn’t anything like either of us. She’s a direct descendant of the ancient Celtic goddess, Findabar. When Haggerty kicks it, she won’t die like we will, she’ll be “called home,” as she puts it, to Tir na n’Og, the “land of the young,” in the Celtic language, where she’ll live forever.

The wind rattled the window; the mere sound caused Haggerty to shiver within her navy wool suit. That’s how she dresses, in boxy suits and sensible heels. Not like me, that’s for sure. In the light reflected on the window pane, I caught a glimpse of myself. Man, what a sight I was! Long blonde hair curling wildly in every direction, crowned with a wreath of battered silk flowers held together with glittery garland. Makeup by Crayola. And that dress I wore—half Renaissance ball gown in bright blue satin and lace, half soothsayer garb with its filmy organdy layers, half jester suit. Too many halves, I know, but it was quite a dress. To say my taste and Haggerty’s differed was the understatement of the last five millenniums. Of course, stodgy taste was expected in her job. That’s because, while she truly was a Celtic goddess, Annabelle Haggerty was also a Special Agent of the Los Angeles Field Office of the FBI.

Haggerty stopped and pushed up the sleeve of her suit jacket to view her watch. “Where is he?” she asked in her ever-controlled voice.

She sent a scowl my way. Despite the severity of her style and expression, she was really quite attractive. Her jaw was a little too firm, but she had great cheekbones and beautifully translucent skin. Her auburn hair was pulled back severely into a knot at the nape of her neck, the way she always wore it while working. But it waved beautifully to her shoulders when she set it free.

“Are you sure you got the time right, Samantha?” She rolled her big blue eyes. “How do you ever know—when you refuse to wear a watch?”

If I wore a watch and dressed like other people, I was convinced, no one would take me seriously. I mean who would trust a Spiritual Advisor who looked like everyone else?

I assured her the appointment time was correct; the mark was just late, that was all. She directed a see-all, know-all look my way. She wasn’t superficially assessing whether I was being honest—always a good move with me—like anyone else would, she was peering into me somehow, to test the validity of my statement. I didn’t know how to explain it, but ever since I showed up at Haggerty’s office some months ago, to scam myself into one of the Bureau’s operations to generate a little publicity, some kind of metaphysical connection had formed between us. Don’t ask me how. Despite my chosen work as a fake psychic, I’d never believed in that woo-woo stuff. Now I didn’t know what I believed. I just knew that somehow Haggerty and I were fated to watch each other’s back. Even if this was not a pairing either of us would have chosen.

Oops! Digressing again, huh?

Though I had thrust myself on the FBI the first time Haggerty’s path and mine had crossed, this time they had come to me. They’d asked me to lure in a superstitious man they were watching, and get him to come to me for psychic readings, where I could pump him for the information the FBI wanted.

The mark was Omar Yassin, a Middle Eastern Studies professor at a local university. Apparently, the FBI, CIA and Homeland Securities people had heard a rumor that linked Omar to terrorists. I was sure they were wrong. I mean the guy was not just witty and urbane, he wore Armani suits and drove an aging Porsche. Gimme a break. Why weren’t they out trapping real threats?