Today on Drabble Wednesday I celebrate the Christmas season… strangely. I have some new drabbles and two old favourites of mine. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!
Every year they erect the garish, smelly thing.
With its scent of evergreen assaulting my nose, and its blinking lights disturbing nap time. Not to mention it’s a giant scratching post. And those dangly ornaments.
It’s like they dare me.
It’s not as if they tuck it in corner. No, it’s in the MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. IN THE WAY. What am I supposed to do, walk around the monstrosity?
I think not.
So why do they get mad when I pounce? Oh, the language I hear.
Truly, it’s their fault.
What else is a cat to do?
Cheesecake and Snickerdoodle waited in the shadow of the Christmas tree, tails wagging in anticipation. The two terriers knew Santa was coming; their namesake treats lay on a plate next to a tall glass of milk. They missed their shot last year, falling asleep too soon, but this year would be different.
Yes, this year had success written all over it, and a place in the dog hall of fame. They’d sink their chompers into Santa, maybe get a piece of Santa’s rump, complete with a velvet souvenir.
They both knew it would be epic. Even better than the postman.
Jingles the reindeer found the crumpled corpse under the Christmas tree, missing a hand. He pawed the body, but it was too late.
“Why? Why? Who would do this awful thing to the Elf on the Shelf?”
“A great disturbance, I sense.”
A tiny wizened green creature appeared from beneath the holiday foliage. In his hands he carried the Elf’s missing appendage and a shiny cylindrical object. He stared at the deceased Elf.
“Teaching him, I was. Listen, he did not. Defeated not the enemy, failed did he.”
A laugh rang out. “He underestimated the power of the dark side.”
A Fairy Tale Christmas Story
Once upon a time, far from the land of BB guns, there was me, Rutherford B. Hasenpheffer, and like all boys (aged 6-12) I had a Christmas wish. I wanted a dragon (yes, you heard me, a dragon). One legendary, fire-breathing, winged lizard.
I badgered my parents night and day for a year, following them around the castle, begging for a dragon.
“No,” they said. Repeatedly. Consistently.
But I persisted, until somewhere around November they relented. So I found a baby dragon under the Christmas tree.
The only problem—the darn beast burned down the castle and now we’re homeless.
Lights glow from the Christmas tree, softly reflecting through the windowpane frost. The faint scent of pine and undertone hints of mulled wine imbue the room. Ribbons and bows and papered packages await the morning, while from somewhere above a snore or two drifts downstairs.
Everyone sleeps, pretty dreams and wonders in their heads, waiting in slumber for the morrow. All is calm and quiet. At least inside. If you listen, really listen, while as the snowflakes fall outside, you can hear. Sprinkled with the moonlight, there’s the jingling of bells and jolly laughter with a hearty, ho, ho, ho…
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