Flash Fiction Anthology

Satan's (un)usual Christmas

Moving to the Italian island of Stromboli aeons ago had been his best idea ever, Satan mused, as he walked out of his white, stone house perched on top of the highest hill of the small isle. He built it with his own hands, centuries back, so close to the volcano that he could watch and revel in the mountain erupting according to his moods and will from his windows.

He wound his way down the steep hillside, following the narrow, winding lanes at human speed to the tiny ancient harbour, returning the greetings of the few locals who saluted him politely as he passed by.

He didn't mind at all that they took him for some mafia boss in hiding, the name he was going under-- Mephistopheles-- coupled with his looks and a fashion sense of a movie star only added to their belief. So did his friends and children who often came to visit-- all well-spoken and dashing-looking folk in stark contrast with the shabby, dialect-speaking locals he learned to love. No, he didn't mind the polite distance the islanders kept from him, he valued his loneliness and privacy.

Oh yes, he had done well, he sighed contentedly as he stepped into his small boat- another thing he constructed himself-- and set it free. Spending a day fishing was the best thing ever, something he could have never done in Hell. His offspring, five clever and gorgeous daughters, did his work for him more than happily, allowing their Hell-weary father to retire into this paradise.

"Buon divertimento, Mephisto!" an old man, fishing from the safety of the harbour's stone wall, called after the demon, wishing him to enjoy himself as his boat sailed by, tossed by the choppy sea like a walnut shell.

"You too," Satan muttered, grinning, looking towards the cloud-shrouded tip of the volcano and evoking a tiny, safe eruption to provide some excitement for the locals, and to give them something to talk about. He knew that they were all betting in the only island's pub on when, and how strongly the volcano would erupt; they would tell him who won this time the moment he reached the pub for his usual pint after his fishing trip.

It was the second week of December and the weather acted accordingly to the proximity of Christmas. It wasn't too cold, it never was this far south, but the winds blew like crazy, day after day, keeping even the most skilled fishermen in the safety of their homes and the pub.

He was the only one who dared to circumnavigate the island these days, admiring the views of the wonderful place free of tourists who swarmed it and made it unpleasantly crowded in the summer. Satan loved it this way, he mused, as he sped back towards the dry land at twilight. Mooring his boat at the dock he slung the net full of decent-sized fish over his shoulder, as always, he would keep a couple for his solitary dinner, and give the rest to the people in the pub.

Maybe he would invite his friend Giovanna to join him for dinner tonight, she was a pleasant companion, a good-looking woman who liked his cooking... and everything else about him, he thought smugly. No, he wasn't in love with her, he didn't think he could love a human, and Giovanna didn't love him either-- that's why they understood each other so well.

Giuseppe had won the bet today, the excited, loud, tipsy men informed him as they divided his catch, and Giovanna had left the island to spend Christmas with her sister on the mainland. Of course, she had, he remembered now, and he didn't really mind, his daughters usually visited this time of the year anyway.

The demon drank a couple of pints of beer with his human friends, listening to their banter and smiling at their jokes, then climbed up to his house alone, making the volcano erupt one more time-- he just loved the way the flames and lava dropping down the side of the hill, then steaming and sputtering furiously as it spilt into the sea, looked in the darkness. And the smells, the odour of smoke and sulfur reminded him of home, making him feel pleasantly nostalgic.

His good mood didn't last long-- he groaned when he found a small pile of letters invisible to human eyes on his doorstep. They arrived each year before Christmas-- letters from children who misspelt Santa's name. 'To Satan with love' glared at him from the white envelope on top, making him wonder whether the messenger who brought them year after year was so obtuse that he didn't notice the mistake, or whether he was doing it on purpose.

Scooping the letters up he opened the door which he always left unlocked-- none of the humans ever entered his house uninvited, as if they could really perceive something otherworldly, and potentially dangerous in him. He threw the envelopes on the dining table made of dark wood, the result of one of his attempts at carpentry.

Pointing a finger at the fireplace he lit the fire, which flooded his dwelling with light and warmth in an instant. He moved around the kitchen with ease, humming a Christmas tune while he uncorked a bottle of wine, washed and cut the fish, threw it on a pan with several thinly sliced potatoes, and while it cooked, proceeded to prepare his salad-- the lettuce, tomatoes and herbs grown in his secret garden situated in the perfect spot on the volcano, always warm as in the summer. He sipped his wine while his dinner finished cooking, then refilled his glass as he brought his plate to the table and turned on the TV. Satan just loved the humans' evening news, movies and shows.

However, he couldn't focus on any of his favourite programs tonight. As he finished his meal and refilled his glass again, his eyes were drawn to the white pile of letters in front of him and he thought that, like every year, he might as well read them. Maybe this time there would be one actually written for him, he chuckled, opening the first.

He wasn't sure if it had been meant for him, but the last letter caught his attention all right. It wasn't written by a spoiled child demanding expensive toys like the rest of them, but by a grown-up woman, a single mother of five boys struggling through life, trying to make ends meet.

'...as every year, all I want for Christmas is... someone to help me cope. To make me smile. To love me and my boys... I know that I've been asking the same for too many years now and that I'm asking too much. And yes, I'm aware that you don't exist... But hey, I won't harm anyone if I try again.'

The last couple of lines made him laugh. It was a first-- no human had made him laugh like this, ever. He was intrigued by the woman beyond the words -- he hadn't been around much as his daughters grew up, but he remembered well that it hadn't been easy. Bringing up five boys was bound to be harder... a perfect challenge for an old demon with plenty of free time.

He stood up from the table and walked to the hearth, summoning images from the dancing flames. It didn't take him long to find her. Even though she had forgotten to sign the letter, he could see her now as she put two of her younger sons in bed. Despite the obvious tiredness on her face, she was a pretty woman, gentle and kind-looking... "Angela," he muttered her name into the fire, watching, surprised, as she shivered and looked around as if she could feel his breath and hear him. This was another first, no human had ever perceived him unless he wanted them to.

He would go to meet her, Satan resolved; the distance spanning between them wasn't a problem, he had his ways and means to do whatever he wished. He would set off in the morning and spend the holiday with Angela and her boys. Maybe he would stay longer, and maybe he would bring them all back here with him...

He just needed to talk to his daughters, to let them know that he would not be at home this Christmas.

"You were never asking for too much, you were simply asking the wrong person," he said into the fire, smiling when he saw the woman in the flames smile at hearing his words.