The Night Before Christmas… When You’re A Writer

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Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a writer was typing, nor clicking a mouse
The stockings were slung sloppily over a chair
Because the writer forgot St. Nick soon would be there

The children were huddled up, all in one bed
Because visions of monsters danced in their heads
And the writer reminded it’s all make believe
And explained once again they’re just stories we weave

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
The writer dove to the floor awaiting blood spatter
Outside the window there loomed a dark shadow
So the writer jumped up to gather some ammo

The moon glinted eerily off of each hill of snow
And the writer wondered if there were bodies below
When, what to scrutinizing eyes should appear
But their redneck neighbor with a case of cold beer

With a roll of her eyes, the writer closed the blinds quick
And knew in a moment it must be a trick
Annoying as sand fleas his laughter rang out
And he whistled, and hollered, and gave a great shout

“Ho ho! Get ‘R Done!”  he called, as if it were funny
And the writer regretted giving him beer money
He reached the porch and banged on the door
Go away! The writer willed and sank to the floor

As dense as a rock, he continued his banging
And the writer cringed as he started up singing
Not Jingle Bells, The First Noel, or Oh, Silent Night
But 99 Bottles Of Beer he crooned with delight

And then, in an instant the singing just stopped
Eye pressed to the peep-hole, the writer now gawped
There stood the neighbor, all except for his head
The sight filled the writer with questioning dread

A shadow emerged, cloaked head to foot
In some type of cape as dark as fresh soot
It lifted the body, flung it over one shoulder
Leaving the head, a gruesome placeholder

Blood-shot eyes still blinking, mouth opened in song
The head hadn’t noticed, something was terribly wrong
The mouth closed slowly, drawing up like a bow
As a river of blood made its way to the snow

The shadow grinned then, showing sharp little teeth
It picked up the head, pulled a blade from its sheath
With careful precision it removed the head’s eyes
and cut out its tongue, like some grisly prize

The shadow raised a plucked eye to the peep-hole with glee
As the writer shivered in terror and started to flee
But a glimpse of red eyes as it twisted its head
Glued the writer to the spot, flash frozen with dread

It spoke not a word, but went straight to its work
Dropped the head in a sack, and gave the door a jerk
The writer realized as they stood nose to nose
This nightmare creature was straight from her prose

She sprang to her desk and reached for a pen
For once she knew just how the story would end
The shadow screeched as she wrote it away
And that’s how the writer spent her holiday

-D.M. Kilgore
2016

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!

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From D.M. & Her Imaginary Friends

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