BONG.

“No!”

BONG.

“They’re coming!”

BONG.

“Everybody run! Get outta here! Find shelter!”

But the bells are too fast, too big.

They bong through the streets relentlessly, their bronze surfaces glimmering beneath the insipid sun of the winter afternoon. They’re taller than the buildings they pass by, wider than the cars that swerve and screech out of their way. And they crush everything – and everyone – who crosses their path.

Folks scatter, dropping their bags of gifts and wrapping paper behind them, to take cover inside shops and cafes and restaurants. Those who run fast enough can make it out alive, but the slow ones aren’t so lucky. The bells trample them, snapping limbs and pulverising organs, all the while ringing out with their incessant bings and bongs which reverberate through the streets and rattle nearby windows.

Janet watches from the comfort of a coffee shop, her hands cradling a hot cup of peppermint latte. “Oh, lovely. You know it’s truly Christmas when the bells arrive.”