How do you like them apples?

A check in and a short story

Season’s Greetings, Romantics. It’s been a little while since I’ve shared a post. November was a bit hectic, and getting a weekly post out felt a bit overwhelming. On the plus side, this little break has given me some time to think about my posting and writing habits and how I want to show up here.

As I move into the new year, I’ll be working to find a better balance between showing up here consistently and making sure I’m not overloading myself with too many things until I burn out, make myself sick, and have to spend a month where my body is forcing me to rest.

I wanted to use Courbet’s “Woman with a Parrot” here, but the world is full of perverts and I didn’t know what an artistic rendering of boobs would do here…so instead you get this. “Nonchaloir (Repose)” - John Singer Sargeant - 1911

Ahem.

Anyway…

As I’m writing this, winter has fully arrived here. Living in Treaty 8 territory during the winter is no joke. The ancestral home of the Cree, Dene, and the unceded territory of the Metis people sees long, dark winters. And, by the Gods, is it cold. But the people that have lived here since time immemorial learned how to handle the winter and enjoy the time it brought them – and it reminds me that I can too. In truth, the cold makes me feel more connected to nature, and I’m grateful to move along with the season and enjoy everything that it brings.

Since it is the winter, I thought I would return to my posting with a short Christmas themed story. This is not the Krampus romance that I’ve mentioned to some of you, but hopefully that will be a present for 2026 (spoiler alert, Santa is the bad guy in that one). Instead, here is a short story I wrote recently where the prompt was “apples”. I’m still on the fence about the title though – I originally called it “Just the Right Crunch”, but I can’t resist a pun and am debating retitling it to “How do you like them Apples?” Let me know what you think in the comments below.

Now, this story isn’t romantic, and it’s probably not the sort of Christmas tale you’d expect. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy.

How do you Like Them Apples?

It’s too dark in this cellar. I guess that’s to be expected, but still, it’s boring and cold.

The fat man swans down chimneys, eats cookies, and takes all the glory, and I have to find cracks and seep in like frost on a cold morning.

Nobody ever leaves out treats for me, but I get hungry too. After all of these years, I no longer feel bad about helping myself and set to finding a couple of apples to munch. I like apples. Sometimes - if you bite one just right - it’s snap almost sounds like bones breaking in your teeth.

I eat, cores and all, not caring about crunching loudly in the dark. But, as I’m licking their sweet juice from my claws, I hear the soft jingle of bells moving through the house above me.

That’s odd. His magic can keep him as quiet as a feather.

What is he doing?

My tail twitches as the door to the cellar opens. Golden light spills down the stairs, surprising and momentarily blinding me. It’s been centuries since I’ve had to scare a child. We never actually took them, you know. Just a glimpse of me - horns shining in the firelight with frost glittering on my hooves – was always enough. But it’s not the fat man waiting for me at the top tonight.

It’s someone much smaller.

I let my horns glimmer in the light and open my mouth to show off my razor-sharp teeth as I climb the creaking stairs. Silence settles back over the house as I tower over the child.

She’s not afraid when she sees me. Instead, her eyes are wide with something I’ve never seen from this close before.

Hope.

When she wraps her tiny hand around my claw, Nicholas’ magic washes over me. Her lips quirk and I understand.

Tonight, I am not just a Krampus.

I am her Krampus.

I wonder if Nicholas knows the dangerous game he is playing. Does he remember the old ways?

Her eyes are too old. Too sad.

I never see the children when they’re nice.

I decide I don’t care if he remembers or not. If she wants me to drag this entire village to Hell, I will. Yuletide be damned.

I spread my arms to gather my own magic before I realize I still have an apple in my hand. Without thinking, I hand it to her. A Krampus never gives anything away. The spark of generosity hurts my chest.

With a grunt I shake off the feeling, resuming my task. Chains clink across the floor, sliding from the shadows and draping over me. The bells clanging along with them sound anything but merry as I let my full, disgusting, damned form take shape in this cellar doorway. The stench of brimstone, blood, and rotten birch fills the air as the cold hearth in the next room springs to life with an unholy fire that can only belong to the gates of Hell.

The child doesn’t even have to tell me where to go. I know the way.

When I drag him down the stairs, his screams are silent and cut off from this world. He’s already in Hell; he just doesn’t know it yet. Still, I can see the words he mouths when he spots her standing beside the fire. If she didn’t already want him gone, I would have taken him anyway.

It’s satisfying to throw him into the flames. Afterwards, I close my eyes and revel in the heat of the regular flames replacing the hellfire in the hearth. After a long moment, I open my eyes and see the little girl looking up at me, a question on her face.

A nod from me is enough. She understands he isn’t coming back. She doesn’t have to thank me. I can feel her gratitude choking the air around me like smoke. With a nod back, she hands me the apple.

The strange sensation from being given a gift feels uncomfortable as I bite the apple, but I can’t help smiling when the sound crunches like bones in the firelight. She watches me eat the whole thing before I let myself begin to fade into the winter night.

“Merry Christmas, Mister Krampus.”

The End.

Anybody else kinda want to eat an apple now?

Tbh, these don’t look like super appetizing apples but I think Krampus would still like them. “Study of Apples from Nature” - William Rickarby Miller - 1863

If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading. As of me writing this post, 92 people have subscribed to this publication. One of the goals I set when I launched my Substack in April was to gain 100 subscribers within the first 12 months. It felt audacious and scary at the time, and I’m overwhelmed to be so close to my goal.

I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you for being here. Stay warm.