16 Dec

Christmas Flash Fiction & Illustrations

We challenged our members to come up with a piece of Christmas flash fiction or an illustration for the last meeting of the year; here's a small collection for your enjoyment. Merry Christmas!

Small Flash copy

Flash the Squirrel, illustrated by Sylvia Lynch © 2015


ELF INC. by Tanya Barden © 2015

“Elf incorporated would like to reassure you that your call is very important to us and will be answered as soon as possible. You are currently, beep, Number 2, beep, in our queuing system.”

“Jingle bells, jingle bells…….

He let out a sigh and lent back in his chair. It had been a long day. His eyelids started to droop and his grip on the phone loosened.

“Hello, customer services how may I help you? Are you there caller?”

“Yes. Yes!”

He juggled the phone back to his ear and tapped on the computer mouse.

“I am calling about my order. I have only received some of the goods and there is now some urgency.”

“Do you have your order number?”

He carefully read out the 12 characters on the reawakened screen.

“Can you please give me the third letter of your password?”

“What password?”

“Unless you can provide me with that information I cannot discuss this order with you”.

“Rollicking reindeers!”

“I must remind you that all calls are recorded and Elf incorporated does not tolerate the use of language that may startle or otherwise upset its employees.”

He groaned softly. No wonder he had so many grey hairs.


THE WORST BOY IN THE WORLD by Gerry Byrne © 2015

Georgie was positively the Worst Boy in the World. Top of Santa’s naughty list. No presents for you, warned Mum.

But Georgie wasn’t having any of it. He was going to poison Santa. Judgmental old fart. Last week, when they had been foraging for mushrooms, Mum had said keep away from the red spotted ones. See how you like that your mince pies, Santa.

Christmas morning dawned and Georgie went to see if his plan had worked. Dad was groaning in the bathroom. Too much of a good thing the night before, said Mum.

Downstairs, there were present for everyone under the tree — except Georgie. He glowered.

Then their neighbour was giggling on the doorstep. “Found this in the garden. Must have fallen off someone’s sleigh.”

Mum winked as she accepted it. “Oh look, it’s for you, Georgie.”

He unwrapped it furiously. It was a very old book. Ye Younge Poysoner’s Handbook: organic chymistrie for the budding alchemist. On the flyleaf was a hand-written note:

Better luck next time, SC.

PS. Rudolf enjoyed his reindeer treat. He sends a flying ‘Hi’.


AND A VERY CHIRPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU TOO by Sheila Corbishley © 2015

Mrs Santa hurried through the snowy park, laden with shopping. All around her, plump-breasted robins posed pouting, while amateur photographers in fur-trimmed parkas urged: “Beak a little wider open. Grrrreat. Now look at that mistletoe as if you really, really want it.”

“It’s disgusting,” tweeted Mrs Robin, flying alongside Mrs Santa. “I mean – would you?”

“Perch on a spade handle? Not with my dodgy balance,” Mrs Santa said regretfully. She was still peeved that just before, she’d persuaded one of the photographers to take a saucy picture of her for Santa. Only he’d said she’d have to be quick, as he was on his lunch-break. By the time she’d unwound her scarf, peeled off anorak, fleece and cable-knit jumper and was down to her thermal vest, she was sweating like a sautéed onion and the man was back to the robins.

“It’s no joke being a woman of a certain age,” she sighed.

“It’s like you’re invisible,” Mrs Robin agreed. “But cheer up.” She nodded towards the shopping. “You seem to have all your presents.”

“Nearly all,” said Mrs Santa, suddenly remembering she’d got nothing for the cat.

“Hey!” she said. “Fancy coming to mine for a drink?”




Mince pies, camera, ice‐cubes (at the ready). Every year Sam would fall asleep and wake to find a bulging stocking hanging from his bedframe. However, this year he was going to stay awake. This year he would definitely see him.

He had it all planned. He had trained for weeks, practising each night at staying awake. Propped bolt upright in bed, eyes wide‐open and firmly fixed on the door, camera at the ready. Sam shivered as he sucked an ice‐cube…mission ‘Sam see Santa’ was guaranteed!

Heavy eyes…sleepy eyes…sleep beckoned him…

“Good‐night, sweet dreams,” Sam’s mother and father whispered to their son.

Sam’s head nodded for sleep.

A soft ‘click’ and a bright ‘flash’…

He reached for another ice‐cube…they were gone; only water remained along with a plate full of crumbs and a photograph of a sleeping boy. A bulging stocking swung gently from his bedframe, whilst a distant sound of sleigh bells jingled their way across the skies.


TINY MOUSE by Elizabeth Lawson © 2015

Tiny Mouse was cold and hungry but snow fallen, covering the ground and she couldn’t find anything to eat. But she didn’t give up. By and by she came to a hole in a wall. She squirmed through and found herself in a room. Bright lights shone and the air was warm. She went to look for food. She found some chocolate but it was wrapped in silver paper that hurt her teeth.

“Meooooow…” A cat sprang at her from nowhere. Tiny ran. She spotted a stocking and raced inside.

But then the stocking was lifted up. With its entrance high above her, poor Tiny couldn’t climb out.

But she didn’t give up.

She nibbled and nibbled the stocking until she’d made a hole and peeped out. There was a great big man in the room. Tiny was terrified. But she didn’t give up.

“Please help me,” she squeaked.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” he said. “I know just what to do with you.”

He took her home and gave her a doll’s sock (for a sleeping bag) and a couple of mince pies. Enough to keep her and her family fed until the snow melted.

Happy Christmas Tiny Mouse!


TIMOTHY MOUSE by Peter Rogers © 2015

All the mice huddled together for warmth in the damp dark reaches of their nest. All except Timothy Mouse. He sat by the entrance of the nest, his breath was pulled from his tiny lungs by the fingers of the icy night, his teeth chattered like skeleton’s knees and his whole body shuddered from the tip of his ears to the curl of his toes.

“He will be coming, he will be coming” Timothy repeated to himself. He gazed into the night sky for any sign of Father Christmouse, the jolly fat mouse who gave presents to all the good mice of the world.

Timothy had been good all year, well nearly all year. His only fib had been today. His mother repeatedly made him promise never to go out at night and today, as with every day, he had promised he would stay in the nest. But that was a lie.

Suddenly Timothy saw something in the distance. It was difficult to make out and made no sound. “Like magic” thought Timothy.

He took a few steps outside the mouse hole and called out “Father Christmouse I see you.”

“Yuletide greetings young mouse, have I a surprise for you?”


THE LAST STOP by Julia Stafford © 2015

It was Father Christmas's last stop of the year. He stood at the foot of the bed smiling. A tiny figure gently snored, bed covers gathered into a cosy nest around her. Half a cup of cocoa sat beside the end of a biscuit. 

She had really wanted to be awake when he got there, but now she slept, curls spread across the pillow, cheeks flushed in the light of the fire. There was a note:

'There's a salad in the fridge, hope it was a good night? M xx'

He placed a beautifully wrapped box on the bedside table and bent to kiss her, breathing in warm lavender and chocolate shortbread.

"Merry Christmas, Mrs Christmas."