Charlotte said with delight.
"Sssshhhhh!" Emily admonished her sister.
The rules of story time were few but important, and one of them was that the two-girl audience could not interrupt mid-sentence or, in the case of a poem, mid-stanza. Their feedback was valued, their reactions cherished, but a storyteller must receive his due respect.
He began again, "Well, now Thanksgiving is safely past, more turkey eaten this year than last, more stuffing stuffed, more yams jammed into our mouths, and using both hands, coleslaw in slews, biscuits by twos, all of us too fat to fit in our shoes." The girls were giggling just where he wanted them to giggle, an Marty could barely restrain himself from turning around in his chair to see how Paige liked it so far, as she had heard none of it until this moment. But no one would respond to a storyteller who couldn't wait until the end for his plaudits, an unshakable air of confidence, whether faked or genuinely felt, was essential to success.
So let's look ahead to the big holiday that's coming, coming, coming our way.
I'm sure you know just what day I mean.
It's not Easter Sunday, not Halloween.
It's not a day to be sad and listless.
I ask you, young ladies, what is it-?"
"It's Christmas!" Charlotte and Emily answered in unison, and their immediate response confirmed that he had them in his spell.
"Someday soon, we'll put up a tree.
Why only one? Maybe two, maybe three!
Deck it with tinsel and baubles bright.
It'll be an amazing and wonderful sight String colored lights out on the roof-pray none are broken by anything's hoof Salt down the shingles to melt the ice.
If Santa fell, it just wouldn't be nice.
He might fracture a leg or get a cut, perhaps even break his big jolly butt."
He glanced at the girls. Their faces seemed to shine in the shadows.
Without saying a word, they told him, Don't stop, don't stop!
God, he loved this. He loved them.
If heaven existed, it was exactly like this moment, this place.
"Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news.
Hope it won't give you Christmas blues.
Santa was drugged, tied up, and gagged, blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and bagged.
His sleigh is waiting out in the yard, and someone has stolen Santa's bank card.
Soon his accounts will be picked clean by the use of automatic-teller machines."
"Uh-oh," Charlotte said, snuggling deeper into her covers, "it's going to be scary."
"Well, of course it is," Emily said. "Daddy wrote it."
"Will it be too scary?" Charlotte asked, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
"Are you wearing socks?" Marty asked.
Charlotte usually wore socks to bed except in summer, because otherwise her feet got cold.
"Socks?" she said. "Yeah? So?"
Marty leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice to a spooky whisper, "Because this story won't end until Christmas Day, and by then it's gonna scare your socks off maybe a dozen times."
He made a wicked face.
Charlotte pulled the covers up to her nose.
Emily giggled and demanded, "Come on, Daddy, what's next?"
"Hark, the sound of silver sleigh bells echoes over the hills and the dells.
And look reindeer high up in the sky!
Some silly goose has taught them to fly.
The drivergiggles quite like a loon-madman, goofball, a thug, and a goon.
Something is wrong-any fool could tell.
If this is Santa, then Santa's not well.
He hoots, gibbers, chortles, and spits, and seems to be having some sort of fits.
His mean little eyes spin just like tops.
So somebody better quick call the cops.
A closer look confirms his psychosis.
And-oh, my dears-really bad halitosis!"
"Oh, jeer," Charlotte said, pulling the
"Sssshhhhh!" Emily admonished her sister.
The rules of story time were few but important, and one of them was that the two-girl audience could not interrupt mid-sentence or, in the case of a poem, mid-stanza. Their feedback was valued, their reactions cherished, but a storyteller must receive his due respect.
He began again, "Well, now Thanksgiving is safely past, more turkey eaten this year than last, more stuffing stuffed, more yams jammed into our mouths, and using both hands, coleslaw in slews, biscuits by twos, all of us too fat to fit in our shoes." The girls were giggling just where he wanted them to giggle, an Marty could barely restrain himself from turning around in his chair to see how Paige liked it so far, as she had heard none of it until this moment. But no one would respond to a storyteller who couldn't wait until the end for his plaudits, an unshakable air of confidence, whether faked or genuinely felt, was essential to success.
So let's look ahead to the big holiday that's coming, coming, coming our way.
I'm sure you know just what day I mean.
It's not Easter Sunday, not Halloween.
It's not a day to be sad and listless.
I ask you, young ladies, what is it-?"
"It's Christmas!" Charlotte and Emily answered in unison, and their immediate response confirmed that he had them in his spell.
"Someday soon, we'll put up a tree.
Why only one? Maybe two, maybe three!
Deck it with tinsel and baubles bright.
It'll be an amazing and wonderful sight String colored lights out on the roof-pray none are broken by anything's hoof Salt down the shingles to melt the ice.
If Santa fell, it just wouldn't be nice.
He might fracture a leg or get a cut, perhaps even break his big jolly butt."
He glanced at the girls. Their faces seemed to shine in the shadows.
Without saying a word, they told him, Don't stop, don't stop!
God, he loved this. He loved them.
If heaven existed, it was exactly like this moment, this place.
"Oh, wait! I just heard terrible news.
Hope it won't give you Christmas blues.
Santa was drugged, tied up, and gagged, blindfolded, ear-stoppled, and bagged.
His sleigh is waiting out in the yard, and someone has stolen Santa's bank card.
Soon his accounts will be picked clean by the use of automatic-teller machines."
"Uh-oh," Charlotte said, snuggling deeper into her covers, "it's going to be scary."
"Well, of course it is," Emily said. "Daddy wrote it."
"Will it be too scary?" Charlotte asked, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
"Are you wearing socks?" Marty asked.
Charlotte usually wore socks to bed except in summer, because otherwise her feet got cold.
"Socks?" she said. "Yeah? So?"
Marty leaned forward in his chair and lowered his voice to a spooky whisper, "Because this story won't end until Christmas Day, and by then it's gonna scare your socks off maybe a dozen times."
He made a wicked face.
Charlotte pulled the covers up to her nose.
Emily giggled and demanded, "Come on, Daddy, what's next?"
"Hark, the sound of silver sleigh bells echoes over the hills and the dells.
And look reindeer high up in the sky!
Some silly goose has taught them to fly.
The drivergiggles quite like a loon-madman, goofball, a thug, and a goon.
Something is wrong-any fool could tell.
If this is Santa, then Santa's not well.
He hoots, gibbers, chortles, and spits, and seems to be having some sort of fits.
His mean little eyes spin just like tops.
So somebody better quick call the cops.
A closer look confirms his psychosis.
And-oh, my dears-really bad halitosis!"
"Oh, jeer," Charlotte said, pulling the
Similar Books
Armando Returns (Barboza Brothers)
Reeni Austin
Heart of Ice
Carolyn Keene
Boy Crucified
Jerome Wilde
Watching You
Michael Robotham
The Dark Between
Sonia Gensler
The Ambushers
Donald Hamilton
Aztlan: The Last Sun
Michael Jan Friedman
Fight
London Casey, Ana W. Fawkes
Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes
Armistead Maupin