I waited outside the dark wooden door of our family apartment on Christmas Eve, waiting for midnight, when tall, gaunt Father Christmas would stalk through the long, white-walled corridors in his billowing black cloak. This year, I was the good child chosen to whisper "Rumble to the whimsies, not to ours," the magic phrase which would keep Father Christmas from abducting the children who'd been bad that year to work in his coal mines at the North Pole. It meant "go talk to the cops, instead of taking our own," and it was guaranteed to make him pass over.
©1999 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
This document was last updated (fixed mailto) April 7, 2001.