Angels From Their Realms of Story a Christmas Anthology

Angels From Their Realms of Story a Christmas Anthology compiled by Michael Young.

Micheal Young

*All the proceeds from sales of the anthology are donated to charity.

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Back cover blurb:

Christmas carols capture the spirit of Christmas like nothing else, and Carol of the Tales and Other Nightly Noels brings beloved carols to life like never before.
Throw your cares away with the tales from sweet silver bells. Follow the story of the one creature who was stirring on Christmas Eve and feel the redemption of a dying wife’s parting Christmas gift. Experience all this and more in these heartfelt, entertaining tales donated by a team of authors from across the country, teaming together for a good cause.*
Covering twenty-five stories–one for every day through Christmas itself–this anthology is ready to become a new advent tradition for your family!

 Angels from their Realms of Story

Here is a snip of three stories in this Anthology:

#1

“You can’t be serious. I’m not doing that pageant. Not like this.” She pointed forcefully to the clump of hair still lying on the carpet.

“Hon.”

Kurt tried to place a hand on her shoulder again but she shrugged it off. “Don’t ‘hon’ me.  I’m not going to play Mary. It wouldn’t be right.”

Narrowing his eyes, Kurt stepped back. “What do you mean? You’re perfect for it. You’ve been wanting to do it ever since we moved here. I’ll even get you a wig if that would make you feel better.”

“No,” she said. “No, no, no!” she made for the door, but Kurt headed her off.

“Hon, what are you afraid of? The people at church know about your…condition.  No one is going to laugh, or make fun of you. You can still play Mary and everyone will love it.”

Tears welled again in her eyes, and she clenched her fists to keep from screaming. “Mary…” she began loudly, and then lowered her voice. “…Mary is probably the most wonderful, beautiful woman who has ever lived. God wouldn’t have chosen just any woman to be the mother of his son. She must have perfect.”

Kurt shook his head. “No one but Jesus was perfect.”

She sighed slowly and turned to one of the many Nativity sets that lay about the house. There she selected the Mary, a beautifully carved figurine made of olive wood from the Holy Land. “My mother gave this time me, remember? Right after they found her tumor. Mary might not have been a perfect woman, but compared to me, she’s a saint.”

Leigha set the figure back down, a bit harder than she had meant to and finished storming off.

All day, she tried to busy herself with everything she could imagine to do. By the early afternoon, however, she had blown through her to do list. Unsure of what else to do to take her mind off things, she donned the hat her husband had given her and walked over to the park.

She had only been there a few minutes when a text message came from Kurt. She glanced down at her phone, and read. “Hi, hon. I’m preparing a little something for you. Don’t come home for about an hour.”

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#2

Santa looked down and thought how his stomach was more like a half-deflated balloon than a bowl full of jelly, and his nose more black cherry than maraschino.

His job gave him every reason to feel jolly: perfect job security, cheerful co-workers, state of the art technology, travel to exotic places, and unlimited hot cocoa. But today the calendar read November 25th. The most dreaded deadline of the year was today: the finalization of the Naughty List, based on last year’s deeds.

Sure, he could see kids when they were sleeping and know when they were awake. He knew if they were bad or good with the help of his monitoring elves. It was just so hard to make the final decisions. Though most people assumed he checked the list only twice, he often agonized over it for weeks, checking and rechecking it.

There was the regular Naughty List, which was bad enough, and then there was the Chronically Naughty List, where only the naughtiest appeared. Those on the second list risked being permanently banned from Christmas privileges, with only coal to look forward to for the rest of their lives.

St. Nick didn’t like having to put anyone on that list. But, rules were rules and he couldn’t break them without setting a bad example.

He stuffed his large girth into the tinsel-draped chair behind his desk, and picked up his candy-cane striped pen. The Naughty and Nice lists lay out in front of him, filled with names in calligraphy. Off to the side lay the third list, which held only one name. St. Nick’s eyebrows rose.

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#3

Grant floated through the damp night, wondering about his future.  Would he really be able to stand this line of work? In life, he hadn’t been a Grinch by anyone’s standards, but neither had he brimmed with Christmas cheer. After losing his only daughter  on Christmas Day so long ago, the magic had gone out of the season completely. He sent the compulsory cards, drank just the required amount of eggnog, and hummed a few bars of Christmas carols when socially expected to.

The house was not hard to spot. Though to mortals, the house would look like a run-down sort of house that would not even qualify as a fixer-upper. To him, it glowed with ghostly spotlights glinting off tinsel and ornaments draped all over the house. The roof glistened with fake snow, and minor key versions of Christmas carols drifted from each frosted window.

Already feeling a ghostly headache coming on, Grant swept down to the front door, which was flanked by light-up reindeer.

Grant approached the front door, wading through piles of convincing fake snow. On the wooden front door stood a huge iron doorknocker with a frosted iron loop. Seeing no point in putting off the inevitable, he reached for the doorknocker to announce his presence.

When his hand was a mere inch away, the doorknocker burst to life, morphing into a caricature of Vince’s face, groaning and howling like a ghoul. Grant shot back, flailing his arms. It wasn’t easy to scare a ghost, but some just had the gift.

The doorknocker’s wails turned into laughs as Grant picked himself up and dusted the snow off his ghostly body. The doorknocker retained the look of a metallic version of Vince’s face. “Haven’t you ever read A Christmas Carol? You really didn’t see that one coming? Oh, this is too good. What a great start to my poltergeist career.”

Grant grunted and jumped forward. His fingers closed around the metal ring, which now hung out of Vince’s nose, and rapped it multiple times against his face.

“Hey!” wailed Vince. “Stop that! Where’s your sense of humor?”

Giving Vince a few additional knocks for good measure, Grant stepped back and waited for whoever or whatever would answer the door. The scraping of metal sounded from within, followed by the unlatching of several deadbolts. The door swung wide with a creek, revealing a dour ghost draped in chains, some of which were attached to metal boxes. The man wore a rumpled, old-fashioned suit, and an expression that did not convey even a spark of Christmas spirit.

“Uh…ho, ho, ho, or whatever you say around here,” Grant said.

The ghost’s expression did not change.

 

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