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Site Index | Spec the Halls Main Page | Submission Guidelines | Recommended Submissions | All Submissions | FAQ | Newsletter Archives | News | Contact
Newsletter Archives |
Amazingly, I think I've gotten everything done that needs doing for Christmas this year--except for Christmas cookies. Cards and presents are all done. This year I did a lot of my Christmas shopping in July. Taking care of things early is a great feeling!
Unfortunately, judging by the (small) number of entries to Spec the Halls so far, not everybody took care of things early. I'm looking forward to a rush of submissions right around Christmas time!
Featured Selections
Titch
by Sheila Crosby
Titch walked up and down the washing line twice. He looked on the ground below and in the bushes behind it. Nothing.He muttered, "There must be a one-legged thief around here. That's the third sock vanished this week." Read the rest of the story.
The Mayo Clinic has an informative Healthy Living newsletter--links that you might find useful around this time of year include Stress, Depression, and the Holidays: 12 Tips for Coping and healthy (and tasty-looking) holiday recipes.
Gifts are bought and wrapped, the house is (mostly) decorated (which means garlands over the doorways and ornaments hanging from the chandeliers), and I'm currently trying to figure out how to condense a year into a 1-page Christmas letter. Hmm. Yes, sending out this newsletter is me procrastinating!
Featured Selections
The Santa
by Gregory Bernard Banks
The pounding on the roof alerted us that he'd arrived. The legends said he returned every Christmas Eve, the hulking red menace with his accursed sack of offerings. No matter what we did, whether we begged, pleaded, threatened, or attempted to deceive, he was never deterred from coming back each year to torment our lives.Bells rang as he strutted across the roof, his gas-bag of a belly no doubt bouncing in glee. I glanced at my wife, her yellow eyes dancing with fear, and the two cubs, who hid beneath her skirts, and I felt powerless, even impotent, knowing that I could do nothing to stop this invasion into our dark abode.
Abbey Green
by Jude Parsons
Every year the little wooden huts go up in the city centre for the Christmas market in Abbey Green, under the ancient sycamore tree.And every year, when the shoppers have gone home and the streets ring with the occasional footstep of a lost traveller or late-comer, the elves creep inside the makeshift garden sheds and make toys, hats and all things Christmassy.
Holiday Tip
Trying to figure out what to get for that one really difficult to buy for person on your Christmas list? Take a look at Surprise.com. They've got a bunch of categories that help the process--things like "Always Cold" or "Adventurous" or "Sports Fan." And yes, I passed along this tip last year, too--but it's still good!
Welcome back to Spec the Halls!Return to top of page.Spec the Halls is a contest for speculative winter holiday-themed fiction, artwork, and poetry. The holiday may be fictional or real; it may be Christmas or Yuletide as we know and love it, or it may be something much stranger.
You have been added to this list by your request or because you submitted an entry to the Spec the Halls contest last year. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, you will receive Spec the Halls emails, containing contest news and featured submissions. You are encouraged to forward these emails in their entirety to other individuals you believe may be interested either in reading the contest entries or in submitting an entry themselves. Spread the holiday cheer...the strange, twisted, weird holiday cheer. To unsubscribe, send an email to specthehalls at gmail.com with "Unsubscribe" in the subject line.
This year, things are a little bit different. There are now two versions:
* Spec the Halls Free Entry, which requires that submissions be posted online in a publicly viewable forum, and
* Spec the Halls Paid Entry, which has a small entry fee and does not require posting entries online.This is still a really small contest, so please pass the word along to other writers, artists, and poets. We want them to share the fun, too.
Welcome back! I hope you're ready to enjoy the holiday season!
See more of R. Lee's art at http://rainoerus.deviantart.com.
Heidi is a professional writer who enjoys surprising people. Contact her at h dot waterhouse at gmail dot com.
Read the rest of the story here. Return to top of page.Christopher [I]
"I am dying," the snowman spoke softly. His voice, high and soft, warmed Christopher more than all of his mother's blankets. Now, that voice was cracking and melting like the snowman's white, round face � a face that would smile until it was gone. The snowman acted like most grown-ups, smiling when he was sad.
Christopher felt the same grownup sadness, but he could not smile about it, since he was only seven years old.
No. His throat felt hard and tight. He covered his mouth with blue, snow-sprinkled gloves, coughing out cold winter steam. No, no. His coughing always grew worse when he was upset. You can't die. You can't die if I put you back together. He scooped up a handful of snow, one of the few fading lumps that still covered the backyard grass. He placed it gently on the upper corner of the snowman's chest. It looked wrong, like a third shoulder.
His heart sank as it toppled back off, taking an extra chunk of the snowman with it.
Water melted down from the snowman's uneven eyes, two cuff links that Christopher had taken from his father's old suit. Even Christopher, more a believer in fairy tales than most of his schoolmates, never thought that a pair of buttons could look so sad.
"Christopher . . . " A few more flakes broke off the snowman's chest. Was he trying to breathe like a real person? "I watched you come into this world, before you shaped me with your hands, or your mind."
Then don't go!
"Don't you remember the stories your mother read you? Nobody likes countries where it's winter all the time. Nobody, except evil queens."
Then I'll be a queen some day.
The snowman chuckled.
Christopher wiped his eyes, coughing into his glove a few more times. Next winter he would be a year more grown up, which meant he would want to play with the snowman a little less. A year later, even less. And less. And less.
Christopher pulled off his red hat. The wind, a little warmer than yesterday, tickled his matted brown hair. Stupid seasons. I don't have any friends after winter. You're the only one who plays with me and doesn't throw my lunch in the girls' room, or make fun of the pom-pom on my hat, or trick me into believing things, or call me the cough-boy.
The snowman laughed like a tired grandfather, placing a gloved hand on Christopher's thin, quivering shoulder. The hand warmed him almost as much as the voice.
Christopher stopped trying to wipe his cheeks dry. At that moment he believed what his mother told him, that he'd be a little boy forever, and he hoped she was right. He didn't want grow another day, another hour, another moment. Please don't go. Or if you have to go, take me with you so I don't have to go back to school next Tuesday.
Thanks to the large volume of last-minute submissions, we have several Featured Selections this newsletter.
Featured Selections
Star of Bethlehem
R. Lee
Angelique
She is a perfect creation,Santa Claws
platinum hair framing
pure, porcelain skin,
white satin cloak
whispering delicate contours
Read the rest of the poem.
As the sun set over the grey Pacific shore, Jake watched as one family and then another down the block began loading up into their SUVs. Some emerged laden with presents, brightly colored boxes piled high and stashed in a kaleidoscope of commercialism in trunks and back seats. Others left their homes empty handed, just bundled against the bitter cold. Their breath hung in the early winter night, visual testament to the words they tossed back and forth before sealing themselves into their luxury suburban vehicles and driving away towards the coastal highway a few blocks eastward. Finally, it was quiet, and dark, save for the ubiquitous multi-colored lights. Jake went to work.He started with the house he'd seen folks leave from bearing gifts. While those who'd left empty-handed might have more loot still under the tree, those who'd carried presents with them were likely to remain gone longer. After more than a decade of holiday "shopping" and a few close calls, he'd got this down to a science. The fear-thrill that had once accompanied every trip was now mostly gone, which was, he supposed, a good thing. He had no desire to end up in jail, or with a record, but sometimes he missed the jolt of adrenaline he experienced when things went a little off plan.
Featured Selections
The Gingerbread House
by Heidi Waterhouse
Come in, come in, my dears!
I haven't seen you in years.
Nice of you to visit an old lady
who is past the age of shoving
anyone into any ovens.
Read the rest of the poem at http://wiredferret.livejournal.com/1169099.html
Featured Selections
For Arthur
by Elizabeth Kate Switaj
Faeries have glided ice over pines
I myself have brought down stars for boughs
You have not returned
and when I think
you never will
Read the rest of the poem at http://qassandra.livejournal.com/531267.html
There are many stories of imaginative children whose snowmen come to life for a little while. What happens when those children grow up? Learn about four special souls, the nostalgia that haunts them and a strange task that will change them forever. Editor's comments: This is a poignant, bittersweet story about magic granted to those most in need of it.
"I am dying," the snowman spoke softly. His voice, high and soft, warmed Christopher more than all of his mother's blankets. Now, that voice was cracking and melting like the snowman's white, round face - a face that would smile until it was gone. The snowman acted like most grown-ups, smiling when he was sad.Season's GreetingsChristopher felt the same grownup sadness, but he could not smile about it, since he was only seven years old.
No. His throat felt hard and tight. He covered his mouth with blue, snow-sprinkled gloves, coughing out cold winter steam. No, no. His coughing always grew worse when he was upset. You can't die. You can't die if I put you back together. He scooped up a handful of snow, one of the few fading lumps that still covered the backyard grass. He placed it gently on the upper corner of the snowman's chest. It looked wrong, like a third shoulder.
His heart sank as it toppled back off, taking an extra chunk of the snowman with it.
Water melted down from the snowman's uneven eyes, two cuff links that Christopher had taken from his father's old suit. Even Christopher, more a believer in fairy tales than most of his schoolmates, never thought that a pair of buttons could look so sad.
"Christopher . . . " A few more flakes broke off the snowman's chest. Was he trying to breathe like a real person? "I watched you come into this world, before you shaped me with your hands, or your mind."
Read the rest of the story at http://neoguardian.livejournal.com/404653.html
"Will it hurt?" Harry asked."No. You won't feel anything. We numb a small patch of skin on the top of your of scalp with Novocain, and the rest is done under electro-acupuncture anesthesia. It won't hurt. That I can promise." The researcher spoke with the firm timbre of a man trying to end a long stream of questions by adopting a definite tone of voice.
"And your drugs and electrical currents won't change my personality?"
"Not at all. During the experiment, some perceptions and some memories will be altered. That's all. It won't change who you are or affect your driving or your ability to respond to danger..." The scientist, Peter Anders, a thin, bespectacled man with uncombed, brown hair, sighed with impatience.
Harry thought. "Will it do anything else?"
Read the rest of this story at http://home.att.net/~fiddlerzvi/greeting.html.
