Christmas with the Frankensteins
Short Stories

Christmas with the Frankensteins

It was Christmas eve, and all was peaceful in the Frankenstein household. Mom Frankenstein hummed merrily as she welded up holes in Pop’s socks. Seven year old Jimmy Frankenstein was over by the fire, making new friends (concentrating hard on keep the sewing neat). Baby Jane Frankenstein was in her cot, farting like a trooper. They’d been looking for a replacement, but for now the trooper’s anus would have to do.

The door opened, letting in a flurry of snow. Pop Frankenstein stomped through. Mom flipped up her welding mask and smiled.

“Hello honey,” she said cheerfully. “Good day at work?”

“Challenging,” Pop replied, “but it’s reassuring that so many truckers want to take my Pilates class.” As he shrugged out of his coat, Pop gave a sharp hiss of breath.

“Are you all right dear?” Mom asked.

Pop gave a big smile. “Just a stitch,” he laughed. Mom threw a heavy steel sock at him. Pop tossed it playfully back.

“You…,” she chided. “Now go and get yourself cleaned up. We’ve got guests, remember.”

Pop furrowed his huge brows.

“You haven’t forgotten I invited the Draculas round for a bite?”

With a chastened glance, Pop disappeared to file off a day’s growth of beard, and throw on a clean chain mail shirt. The Draculas arrived soon after dark, with their twins Sam and Ella. Air kisses were exchanged (so as not to risk breaking their guest’s fangs), and the kids went over to play with Jimmy.

A convivial evening passed swiftly.

“Come on then kids,” Pop Frankenstein encouraged. “Santa won’t bring presents if you’re not in bed.”

Jimmy, Sam and Ella exchanged shrugs and knowing looks.

“Oh really papa,” said Jimmy. “Sam and Ella are both a hundred and eight years old, and my brain came from a professor of anthropology at the Université de Genève. Do you honestly think we still believe in a bunch of elves, flying reindeer, and a fat man in a red coat that can miraculously fit down chimneys? We appreciate the sentiment, but it’s all just quaint fiction.”

Baby Jane emphasized the point with a particularly ripe retort.

Image by Etienne Marais from Pixabay