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Charlie the Christmas CatIt all started with a banana.   
No, wait.  That’s not quite right.   
It all started with Paris.   
I’ve always wanted to write a story that started with Paris.  The Louvre.  The Seine.  Notre Dame.  Paree.   
Ok.  Let me just clarify that I’m not in Paris.  My friend Myra is.  For Christmas.  And today is the first day that I’m going to check on her cat, Boots.  Boots Pierre.  I don’t know if he is aware of his full moniker.  Right now his only interest is in Charlie the Christmas Cat
in Christmas Prose
Christmas Eve, 1887Christmas Eve, 1887.     
Foreman Joe DeLongchamp lit his pipe and closed the door to the bunkhouse behind him.  He could still hear the other jacks laughing and spinning yarns over a few games of cards.  Some were sewing shirts or socks, some were sharpening saws or axes, all of them grateful for an extra day off tomorrow, Christmas day.   
Off to the west, the sun dipped down behind a gathering bank of black clouds.  Snow, and lots of it, he thought.  He held his pipe to his side and sniffed the air.  Something else, too.  He couldn't quite place it.&# Christmas Eve, 1887
in Christmas Prose
Christmas Fun Christmas Fun  
 
 
“Who is this?” the boy asked, wondering who could be knocking at the door so late in the night.   
“It’s Santa! Santa Claus! I’m here to deliver the presents.”   
The boy froze. Chills going through his back while being so amazed, but he couldn’t move one bit. He managed to gather his thoughts quickly and with a shivering voice he asked:   
“But, weren’t you supposed to come in through the chimney?”  
From the other side of the door the boy could hear a deep groan, and then, after a hollow cough, the supposed Santa spo Christmas Fun
in Christmas Prose
A Christmas StoryMy name is Jessica Lopez.  I’m 14 years old, and I’m probably the oldest person in the entire world who still believes in Santa.   
My friends, their parents have all confessed to them the simple truth of the jolly, big-hearted fellow who had supposedly been bringing our gifts each year; it was really the parents themselves.  They came down around midnight and feasted on the cookies—the hooves that the children heard on their roofs were only their imaginations.   
I can’t really say that there’s ever been a time when I didn’t believe in Santa, because I know that he’s A Christmas Story
in Christmas Prose
Old Nick
in Christmas Prose
Orthodox Stockings“Greetings my fellow, disgruntled elves!” Azramine Lovegreen, President of Elves For Orthodox Stockings, was on stage, bellowing out her welcome to the members and prospective members of the society who sat on the chairs below.  It was their yearly rally and the turn out was fantastic. The hall was crowded with unhappy-looking Santa’s helpers, and many of them had already pinned EFOS badges to their tunics and waistcoats. Some had even donned hats with the letters embroidered on them in golden thread.             “It was so much better when the bad children g Orthodox Stockings
in Christmas Prose
LITMAS Chirstmas Prose     They all say around the big fire, each with a glass of hot cider in one hand, faces alive with laughter. I had just thrown my coat onto the bed in the guest room off the hall, and stood shivering in the glow cast by the glisteing Christmas tree. All of the faces were familiar, everyone friendly, everyone happy.  
     "Hey, how was the trip?" My best friend from highschool came walking up, smiling and hugging me. "Find the place okay?"       "Oh you know, it was fine. I made it here eventually, didn't I?" I grinned, grasping her shoulders to look into he LITMAS Chirstmas Prose
in Christmas Prose
Christmas Lights“Christmas Lights, Christmas Wrapping”   
 
They’ve hung the lights, all of them.  It’s rather blinding on the drive home, one house after the other boasting mechanical reindeer and Santa’s legs poking ominously from the chimney.  I park down the block and, lo and behold, the jingle of my keys as I walk to my building is drowned out by an illuminated manger playing a tinny “Adeste Fidelis.”   
We have been spared snow so far this year, despite the threats of this morning’s storm-white sky.  Perhaps there were flurries while I was at work.   Christmas Lights
in Christmas Prose
Christmas for the Military              The living was a happy mess; colourful wrapping paper printed with blushing Santas and grinning Snowmen littered the Turkish carpets. Boxes and price tags were lying contently beside said wrappers, having been discarded quickly in a rush to get the things they had once been parts of. Empty candy wrappers huddled together on the golden brown couches, overlapping one another and proclaiming that they now had thirty percent less fat and still managed fifty percent more chocolate.     I smiled and let my eyes drift further from the presents tha Christmas for the Military
in Christmas Prose
Outside Looking InHe sees the house as he is walking by; a boy walking from somewhere to nowhere. Within the helmet of unwashed hair a face lies, no older than ten, yet aged beyond his years. When he was born is not known to him … it isn’t important. He stops walking to look at the lights, hear the laughter emanating from within.      Clothes – stolen from an overfull Salvation Army bin, and smelling like an animal had defecated in it – caught on rose bushes the size of small mountains as he made his way there, perhaps because of the many flashing decoration lights. He was not ignorant of the time of year – rat Outside Looking In
in Christmas Prose
Rulers and a RiverThe boy’s eyelids drifted open, gliding over the moist and glossy surface of his eyeballs. The child drew the blanket that loosely surrounded him closer to his pale and thin body closer about himself. He stared up at the shapes that the stucco formed on the ceiling. He searched for familiar patterns, likenesses to life, but could find none on this frigid morning. He eased his torso upright, propping himself up with his arms at the peak of his ascent. The boy raised a hand to brush his thick and gnarled hair from his eyes. His mouth opened in a large yawn, making a small squeaking noise. He leaned forward, his weight pushing him forward, Rulers and a River
in Christmas Prose
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