All Stories, Christmas Crime Week 2025

A Boy Name Sue by Scott Taylor

Hello one and all. Instead of the weekly wrap (which would be a strange thing to present being that it is Christmas Crime Week) we unwrap and wrap the final case of this week’s criminal activity. The “Sue” is a vile little turd, but he is both interesting and entertaining, and we feel you will find him the same.

The Holiday Extravaganza ends not today, come back tomorrow and you will see the start of Frederick K Foote Week and he marches the final miles to his 100th appearance on the site.

A Boy Named Sue by Scott Taylor – Content Warning. A subject that some readers may find upsetting.

Image: Jail cell with Christmas trimming chains on the bars by Angie at Studio Anjou

All Stories, Christmas Crime Week 2025

Loch Ness Monster by Steven French

In the world of crime “Boxing Day” often creates its own meaning. Usually something a bit more prosaic than switching places with the Master, unless, of course, his Lordship is in need of “crating” for shipment.

Loch Ness Monster by Steven French is also something whose title can be taken in more than one way. Utterly brilliant, this piece brings out the self head slap and Why didn’t I think of that? in every writer. Steven did, and he handled the subject with perfection.

Loch Ness Monster by Steven French

Image: Jail cell with Christmas trimming chains on the bars by Angie at Studio Anjou

All Stories, Christmas Crime Week 2025

Paraffin Lamp by Alex Sinclair

Few writers expose darkness as well as Alex Sinclaire. And he certainly cast a light on and in a human being utterly destroyed by life in Paraffin Lamp. 

“Packy” should not be on the streets. He is violent and rotten to the vanishing point of his soul. And yet he is “one of us”–which makes him obscene and strangely beautiful.

It comes with a Warning, but if you are having Goose for the holiday it may be an ironic advisory.

Paraffin Lamp by Alex Sinclair – Warning – strong language and content that some readers will find upsetting

Image: Jail cell with Christmas trimming chains on the bars by Angie at Studio Anjou

All Stories, Christmas Crime Week 2025

The Horrible Relocation by Marco and Liam Etheridge

Introduction

Three days into the Yule Tide Caper and we are still as clueless as a manufacturer of cluelessness.

Extra Strength, New and Improved Cluelessness. Like that on the face of a Hollywood type when asked to explain Special Relativity.

But fortunately we can shine light on certain misbehaviours that have migrated from one side of the map to the other. Actually “attempted misbehaviours” because sometimes home blood is the easiest to shed but not leave. 

Such is the case of The Horrible Relocation by the father and son team of Marco and Liam Etheridge.

Enjoy, Ho Ho Oh No

The Horrible Relocation by Marco & Liam Etheridge

Image: Jail cell with Christmas trimming chains on the bars by Angie at Studio Anjou

All Stories, Christmas Crime Week 2025

The Viaduct by Hugh Cron

I’m introducing my own story here.

I’ve not much to say other than this was a blast to write. It was based on some actual events that were told to me by an old work mate. Ironically it wasn’t long after Leila told me that this had been chosen for this week that my workmate passed away.

I am honoured to be part of this and I was honoured to have known the legend that is Murdoch Scott!

RIP Murdy – It was an absolute pleasure working with you and sharing a few pints!!!!

The Viaduct by Hugh Cron – Warning – Strong Language

Image: Jail cell with Christmas trimming chains on the bars by Angie at Studio Anjou

All Stories, General Fiction, Horror

Gentlemens’ Agreement by Steven French

As one of the new faculty members at a small Midwestern college, I used to get the short straw when it came to various off-campus activities, such as ‘community outreach’. Basically, that involved a long drive out to some godforsaken rural township in the middle of nowhere to give a talk on local history to a bunch of bored Shriners. Who never asked questions, never showed any more interest than ‘that’s another event ticked off the calendar’ and who wouldn’t even stump up for dinner afterwards. Which meant hunting down a diner somewhere for a slice of pie as a reward to myself, partnered with a stay-awake coffee and refill.

Continue reading “Gentlemens’ Agreement by Steven French”
All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Horror

When the Sun Dies by Tathagata Banerjee

 The thing that you need to understand is, living beings die.

It’s not welcome, yeah. It is not something to look forward to, but it does happen. And, at times, it is kinda funny.

When daddy killed the deer, I found it funny how she toppled over the ground and crumpled on its back. There is something intricately funny about tragedy, seeing something regal just fall and shatter. When, at the end, the sun dies, I think God will also sit back and have a merry little chuckle.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Fantasy

Grave Stepping by Steven French

Warning – Content that some readers may find upsetting – refer to tags on the bottom of the page

***

What do you say to a person who tells you, when they get one of those shivers-running-up-and-down-the-spine feelings, that not only is someone really walking across their grave but that they can tell who it is …? Well, I can state for the record that what you absolutely do not do is laugh. I learned that the hard way. So, when he sat bolt upright in his armchair, rolling his shoulders and glaring at me as if it were somehow all my fault, I knew better than to look up from my ironing.

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All Stories, Crime/Mystery/Thriller, Fantasy

On Alternate Realities and Blocked Noses By Daniel Ashmore

There is a truth about loneliness that is known fervently to all those suffering from it, and yet is forgotten the very moment we find ourselves free from its oppressive yoke. That is to say that being alone is not unlike having a blocked nose.

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Short Fiction

The Bad Elf by David Christopher Johnston

Blood puddled like pureed cranberry sauce on the floorboards, seeping into cracks and staining the reindeer-skin rug. Erica the Elf sat in the cosy armchair by the fire – His chair – watching the red liquid trickle in tiny tributaries towards the television cabinet. She took a cigar from the box on the coffee table and lit it, letting the match scorch her fingers, the smell of smoke mingling with the metallic stench of death. Glancing at the Fat Man’s corpse lying semi-naked in the centre of the room, Erica dialled the emergency services number and waited.

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