by Tim Coyne
It was not nice before Christmas.
Mom, in her kerchief, called up.
“Sugar, are you snug in your bed?”
Carol arose from the rooftop.
Gone to the window, she’d thrown open the sash, wandering.
Entranced by the prancing of footsteps above.
Stockings hung, in a chain, from the chimney, with care.
But she couldn’t bear it.
Wandering eyes might appear, watching her, plumbed over the eaves.
The Corsairs, they’d rapidly come.
Dum-dums thumbed, stirring chambers of night.
Teeth clattered, thoughts shattered.
Fairy visions, and dum-dums to dance in her head.
She said, “Merry Christmas to all…”. Before she dove out of sight.
And I, in my bed.
© 2021 Tim Coyne
Tim Coyne is a retired reporter/writer and columnist for local
bi-weekly publications. He writes fiction in short and novella form
with edges toward humor, fantasy, speculative and supernatural. He
enjoys cartooning, and writing screenplays, lyrics and poetry. His
varied background, involves electronic engineering maintenance and
support, hospital equipment support, career service and college
Find more by Tim Coyne in the Author
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