I read before I sleep. I read at least one book a week and have since I was twelve years old. I estimate around 4,000 books so far. My wife bought me a copy of HP Lovecraft’s Best of… Over a dozen creepy stories. I was kind of bothered at his blatant racism and condescension, which I had not remembered. However, his writing is still quite good, and I have to make some allowances, but not all, for the time in which he wrote from 1899 to roughly his death in 1937 at age 47. Coincidentally, in that twilight land before sleep but not quite wakefulness is where I think about story ideas. For some reason, what to my wandering mind should appear, but a mash-up of HP Lovecraft and a traditional Christmas poem…
The Nightmare Before Christmas
by Michael Bradley
Suppose a popular Christmas poem, written by Clement Clarke Moore (1779 – 1863) “Twas the night before Christmas,” also called “A Visit from St. Nicholas” in 1822, was based on earlier pagan folk tales? We know such is the way of many things, with Christmas and various other holidays replacing pagan ceremonies. The decoration of the evergreen tree, the yule log, and other customs coming from there.
Yes, I know St. Nicholas was an actual person who rode in a sleigh, lived in what is now Germany, and was a Bishop who handed poor children toys. So, I don’t believe this to be the case, but what if it were…
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The Way You Heard It |
The Way It Was |
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Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house The children were nestled all snug in their beds, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow With a little old driver, so lively and quick, “Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
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Twas the night before shortest day, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes Satanic would smell them and not come in there. The children were huddled in fear in their beds, With visions of torture and their own severed heads. And mamma with her kitchen knife and I with my axe, Had just settled our nerves for the longest night’s watch. When out in the yon there arose such a clatter, I sprang in fear from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the boarded window I flew with my axe, Tore open the shutters and threw back the latch. The gibbous moon on the scabrous new snow Revealed the horror of the creatures below. When what to my fearful eyes should appear, But Satanic’s sled and eight nasty Peryton eating a deer. With a spry ancient driver, so evil and quick, I knew right away – it’s Satanic! More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and whipped them and called them by name. Now Gasher! now, Basher! Now Lancer and Vixen! On Vomit! On, Stupid! On, Conner and Blitzed One! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Let’s slaughter them now! Yes, slaughter them all! Dry leaves crackle in death, then fall from the sky, There was no obstacle past which they could not fly. So up to the house-top the demons they flew, With a sleigh full of dead, and bloated Satanic too. And then with crashing, I heard upon the roof The thrashing and stomping of each vicious hoof. As I jumped back from my window turning my head around, Down the chimney Satanic slid and came down. We was dressed in fur stained red with blood from head to foot, His clothes covered with brimstone, ashes and soot. A bundle of bones he had flung on his back, he looked like a butcher just opening his shack. His eyes how they burned, his dimples so scary! His cheeks were like coals, his nose like a ferret. His lipless mouth was drawn up like a nightmare, His teeth carved sharp and his beard like a goat’s in a snare. The stump of a chewed hand he held tight in his teeth, And smoke encircled his horned head like a devilish wreath. His face was broad, he was bloated of belly It shook drops of blood when he laughed, like a bowl full of guts. He was chubby and plump, and eaten quite well, And he laughed when I saw him, despite his stomach’s swell! In a wink of his eye, he twisted my head. I was left on the floor, unable to move, but not quite dead. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, Filled all the stocking with kids, cutting throats with a jerk. And laying his bloody finger to his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose! He sprang to his sleigh, and gave his minions a shrill whistle, And away they all went, back into the earth beside a thick thistle. But I heard him his warn as he disappeared out of sight, “I will be back next year, for another tasty bite.!” |
