The Ugliest Christmas Sweater Party

A Shorter Short Story

"An ugly Christmas sweater party is as original as depression in dentists," I said.

"My dad's a dentist," he said.

"Well, I'd rather go to the dentist than go to that stupid ugly Christmas sweater party," I said.

"My dad's not depressed," he said.

"Whatever," I said. "So can I borrow a sweater from your mom?"

"My mom's dead," he said.

"Well, shit. This is awkward,” I said, because I had real problems. “How am I going to find a Christmas sweater that's ugly enough?"

He pulled out his phone and started kneading out a text message.

"Are you looking up where to find ugly Christmas sweaters?" I asked.

"No," he said without looking up.

"I bet your dad is depressed. I mean, if your mom is dead and everything...and he's a dentist," I said.

He still didn't look up from his phone. It must be important, I thought, even though I couldn't imagine something more important.

"I can't go with you," he said.

"What?”

“Yeah, to the ugly Christmas sweater party. I can’t go anymore,” he said. His voice was calm, nonchalant.

“But…why not? You promised!"

"Sorry, something came up," he said, tapping away again.

"All of a sudden? Like what?"

Before he could answer me his phone started vibrating with an incoming call and a familiar jingle played. Did he really have “Little Drummer Boy” as his ring tone? Registering my disapproval, he looked at me with hard yellow eyes shaped like splinters felt. When he answered his phone he held a stubby index finger up to my face. As I was trying to decipher whether that finger meant shut up or hold on, he walked away from me.


I went to the ugly Christmas sweater party alone. I wore all black, because that's what you do when things die.