A Christmas Story
December 25th, 2005"Holy frozen frosticles!" screamed Harry the Elf as he was hurtled out of the sleigh. The ice-biting wind blasted snowflakes onto his face, piercing his skin. He looked down into the void below as he fell.
"Holy frozen frosticles!" screamed Harry the Elf as he was hurtled out of the sleigh. The ice-biting wind blasted snowflakes onto his face, piercing his skin. He looked down into the void below as he fell.
She loves crosswords.
So for Christmas, I made her a crossword puzzle. I tried dozens of arrangements using Microsoft Excel, because its cells made rearranging the letters easy.
Santa is real. Oh, sure he is.
He's the one who eats all of the cookies and milk. He's the one who put those all those presents under the tree. Who else could do it?
The proof is in my childhood. I never told my parents what I wanted. My Mom would ask me, "What did you ask Santa for this year?"
I'd tell her, "I told him to get me Megatron or Optimus Prime!"
I was on 14th Street in Manhattan, New York, with a group of friends. It was snowing out. Gentle flakes fluttered downward, muffling the sound of traffic. I could feel the soft squish squish of the fresh snow beneath my feet.