Icelandic Christmas

A 100-word story

Photo by Kalman Balla

‘Einar…’

Somebody was whispering his name.

‘Einar Sigurdsson…’

The voice was coming closer.

‘Stop pretending, child! I know you’re awake.’

The boy opened his eyes: Gryla, the troll woman, stood in her black, sack like dress next to his bed.

‘It’s time, Einar,’ she hissed. ‘You know old Gryla takes the bad boys away on Christmas Eve. You’re gonna be such a scrumptious stew, I’ll lick my twelve fingers, and then I’m gonna put your skull in my collection.’

Einar screamed. His father hurried in the room.

‘What’s wrong, son?’

‘Dad,’ he sobbed, ‘I’m not gonna be bad ever again!’