Christmas Carol Weaponry

The siblings lounged in their respective spots across the living room. Roxie perched in her father’s la-z-boy, stickers scattered around her and her computer in her lap. Candice sat on the couch, a small puppy clinging to her shoulder.

In a flat, monotone tune of Jingle Bells, Candice sang, “Momma please, Momma please, come and take the puppy. I don’t want him anymore, he’s all sharp teeth.”

Roxie rolled her eyes, picking out her favorite stickers to line up on the laptop. “Can you stop now?”

“I cannot stop. I cannot stop, until Momma takes the boy,” she sang back.

“I’m not taking him, he looks comfy,” their mother said.

Candice reiterated in the Christmas carol, “I will not stop until this puppy’s taken back. Ooooh, Momma please, momma please, take these needle claws.”

“Oh my gawd, enough!” Roxie begged.

For one moment, Candice paused and said in a normal voice, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

The two glared at each other for a moment before she launched into the next verse. “Oh, he’s still over here, he won’t go away and I can’t stop singing.”

Their mother leaned over and rubbed the puppy’s head before walking away, leaving the two to grumble at each other.

The singing withered away though as the young dog snuggled into Candice’s shoulder, his head dropping with the weight of sleepiness. The budding argument over mutated Christmas carols in mid-May faded into croons over the puppy snuggles.

No one could resist such power, even an antagonistic younger sister.




This is an entry for

Daily Flash Fiction Challenge  (13+) Enter your story of 300 words or less. #896794 by Arakun the Twisted Raccoon