Short Story Competition 2024 [CLOSED]

Entry 2 ~𝘍𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘍𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦~

Author: Rupu (Quotev)

Genre: Humour

Word count: 1895

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The fairy lights outside my window blinked like tipsy fireflies, their synchronized twinkle the only sign of life on this quiet Christmas Eve. Inside, nestled in my PJs like a hibernating yeti, I nursed a mug of cocoa thicker than Santa's beard, the carols playing on loop a Yuletide earworm I couldn't quite shake. Romance? As likely as finding a sugarplum in my stocking (which, let's be real, would be inhaled faster than you can say "cavity").

Suddenly, the jingle of sleigh bells and a frantic flurry of reindeer snorts shattered the peaceful scene. No, not Santa. Just Kevin from accounts, bursting through the door like a gingerbread man hopped up on Red Bull, a diamond the size of a Brussel sprout perched precariously on his clammy palm.

"Brenda, marry me!" he bellowed, mistletoe strategically dangling from his earlobe like a festive weapon. His face, usually the colour of a well-steeped cuppa, was flushed a shade closer to Rudolph's nose, beads of sweat rivaling the fairy lights in their frantic twinkle. My mug clattered to the floor, cocoa splattering like molten chocolate snow.

"Kevin?" I croaked, the carols momentarily fading into the background. My brain, still sluggish from cocoa and Christmas movie marathons, struggled to process the absurdity of the situation. Kevin, the spreadsheet-wielding, tie-wearing embodiment of office beige, proposing with a diamond bigger than his holiday bonus?

"Brenda," he continued, his voice cracking like a poorly-constructed gingerbread house, "I know it's not exactly mistletoe and moonlight, but I couldn't wait another minute. You're the sugarplum to my eggnog, the tinsel to my... well, you get the idea."

I choked on my cocoa, spewing chocolate shrapnel like a festive Gatling gun. "Kevin," I spluttered, reindeer prancing out the door in bewilderment, "we share a stapler, not a future!"

The twinkle of fairy lights was the only competition for Bernard's glint-in-the-eye as he lumbered through my door, a fruitcake the size of a bowling ball clutched in his hands. Dressed like a disgruntled elf who'd lost his candy cane, he looked as out of place as a lump of coal in a stocking.

"Brenda!" he barked, his voice drier than a Santa's beard after a chimney sprint. "I couldn't wait another fruitcake-flavored minute to say this." He gingerly placed the cake on the table, its aroma a potent mix of rum, spices, and something suspiciously medicinal.

With a flourish, Bernard unveiled the ring nestled amidst the candied peel and dubious nuts. A ruby, the color of a cardinal's heart, shimmered amidst the sugary shrapnel. "This," he declared, his voice cracking like poorly-iced gingerbread, "is for you. You, Brenda, are the only figgy I want in my pudding, the one plum that makes my Christmas pudding whole!"

My jaw dropped faster than a chimney ornament on Christmas Eve. "Bernard, I'm flattered," I stammered, "but I think you might have me confused with Mrs. Higgins. You know, the one with the fruitcake collection rivaling the Smithsonian?"

Bernard's face contorted like a Christmas pudding gone rogue. "Mrs. Higgins? That woman's palate is as refined as a fruit fly's! No, Brenda, it's you. Your laugh is like a jingle bell chorus, your smile sweeter than mince pies, and your presence brighter than a thousand reindeer noses!"

He gestured towards the cake, his eyes pleading like a lost puppy searching for a fire hydrant. "See, this fruitcake, it's not just rum and raisins, Brenda. It's a metaphor. Each candied peel, a shared office joke. Each nut, a late-night spreadsheet session fueled by lukewarm coffee. This cake, it's us!"