Santa Cruz, Bolivia

    “Head shot.  Gained the lead,” said the game’s narrator in an overly stylized male voice from the Dolby 5.1 surround system mounted on the wall.
    “You suck,” Max’s voice rang through my headset.
    “Get over it, noob.” I yelled into the mic, smiling.
    For a brief moment the only sounds in the room were gunshots and button mashing.  The control sticks and trigger buttons clacked angrily as panic set in.
    “It sucks you’re in Bolivia, Jon.” Max’s serious statement came out of nowhere.  “Halo over the internet isn’t the same.  It’s more fun to be able to punch you when you kill me, especially on your birthday.”
    “Tell me about it.” I said.  “Mom didn’t even make banana bread this morning because she couldn’t find a mix.  Bolivia’s stuck in the dark ages.”
    Max chuckled.  “Hey, at least you’ve got in...”
    Suddenly the screen froze mid-shot and Max’s voice simply stopped.  Frustrated, I dropped the black and gray controller onto the hard parquet floor.  A resounding, and somewhat satisfying, crack hit my ears.  This was the fourth time in an hour.  What the heck was going on with the Internet connection?  I blamed the fact that we were in Santa Cruz, a city – if you could call it that– in Bolivia.
    I rolled off the couch, yanked my headset off, and stormed out of the room.  I didn’t even bother to turn off the Xbox.  All I wanted to do was be back in America sitting in the ratty, overstuffed recliner in the basement.  I’d love to have an Xbox controller in my hands and friends around me, but I’d settle for just sitting in the chair.  I could picture the old thing.  The red velvet was fraying at the corners.  I could hear the springs creak as I sat down in it.  The reek of hours of gaming seemed to rise almost visibly from the seat and back.  The wooden handle for reclining would lie on the thick blue carpet uselessly just out of reach.   
    Of course, when we moved to Bolivia, we had to leave the recliner behind.  Instead of the glorious recliner, I had to deal with a couch.  It sat squarely in the middle of the room, its sharp angles simply accentuated by the squareness of the room and the rectangular, wooden parquet on the floor.  I glanced back into the TV room with disgust.  I couldn’t believe Mom and Dad bought that.  They said it looked modern.  I said it looked boring.  Of course, no one listens to a sixteen-year-old even if they do actually know something about comfortable furniture.
    I shook my head and grabbed my sneakers.  As soon as I stepped outside, the mix of strange, uncomfortable smells assaulted me.  Exhaust from a car built back in the 1950s mixed with the smell of chicken frying next door.  The dust grating in my nostrils mingled with the lingering particles of spray paint from the graffiti artists still tagging the vacant lot down the street.  I gagged when the sickening stench of last week’s garbage wafted over to me on the slight breeze.
    A huge, dark green truck rumbled around the corner.  The garbage truck’s high pitched song squealed along with the the horns of angry drivers on the main drag.  I lowered my head, attempting to ignore the overwhelming sensations and simply walk.  The pavement’s dull gray stayed in focus for only a little while before becoming background noise to my thoughts.
    Dad had been transferred to Santa Cruz, Bolivia three weeks ago.  Both he and Mom thought it would be a good idea to move there instead of having Dad commute back and forth.  Round-trip tickets were around a thousand bucks.  Mining engineers get paid well, but not that well.  Of course I’d wanted to stay in West Chicago.  Everything I knew was there.  I’d even tried to talk my parents into letting me stay with Max’s family for the last couple years of high school.  They’d agreed to it already, but my parents said that Bolivia would be a “good learning experience for me.”  I gagged every time I remembered that phrase.
    In any case, my parents ignored my objections and dragged me to Bolivia.  They immediately took to the culture like a kid in a candy shop with free samples.  They sampled bits of the culture and adapted them to our family life.  Meal times were Bolivian; what we ate was Bolivian; how we traveled was Bolivian; and even how we dressed was Bolivian.  Mom and Dad even tried to learn Spanish to get around.  Neither of them could do it.  I mean, they got a couple phrases, but couldn’t learn the more detailed aspects of the language. Bolivia was driving me crazy.
    My mind returned to what I was doing.  I looked up briefly and recognized the main avenue by my house.  As I walked down the main drag, I could hear broken pieces of conversations flying around me.
    “Te quiero.” I like you, a girl said to her boyfriend as they walked past me.
    “No podemos hacer eso.” We can’t do that, a guy in a gray business suit said, seemingly into thin air.  It was only after a brief glance to his face did I notice the bluetooth headset in his right ear.
    “Carne!  Compren su carne aquí.” Meat! Buy your meat here, a man called out from a storefront.
    I couldn’t help but feel a bit accomplished.  My parents wouldn’t have understood anything that was going on on the street.  Granted I’d been studying Spanish in school for a couple of years.  I always thought it was useless.  I guess I was wrong.
    My thoughts wandered back to West Chicago.  I remembered the back streets my friends and I used to ride our bikes on.  There was a park two blocks from my house where we used to play pick-up games of football and baseball.  I could remember shouting out play changes only a split second before hiking the football and, later, throwing a knuckleball that floated right over the batter’s swing.
    I would walk to and from school since it was only four blocks away.  My feet could walk that path without even having to think about it.  Especially on bad days, muscle memory and instinct would take over, guiding me home.  I could remember the exact feeling of opening the door and hearing Mom call from down the hall, “Hi, Honey.  How was your day?”
    More often than not, I’d answer with a non-committal, “Fine.”  Once in a while I’d add a qualifier if something especially good or bad or funny happened.  I’d walk into the kitchen and grab a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich.  Then, I’d trudge up the stairs into my room, drop my backpack on my swiveling desk chair, and collapse in bed for a short afternoon nap.
    The fun I used to have at home reminded me of some of my past birthdays.  Mom’s banana chocolate-chip bread would wake me in the morning with its distinct smell creeping up the stairs.  Later in the day, we’d get sixteen people playing Halo at once.  The shouts of glee or dismay would resound through the house as one team defeated the other.  The memories of those birthdays only made today worse. 
    Anger replaced my nostalgia.  How could my parents drag me away from everything important?  Nothing I said mattered.  They didn’t listen to me when I gave my opinion about the couch they bought or when I argued against coming to Bolivia.
    I looked up in rage, hoping to stare down some innocent passerby just to make myself feel better.  Not only were there no people on the street, but there weren’t any cars either.  In fact, I didn’t recognize the street I was on at all.  It was a clean cobblestone alley wedged between the backsides of two tall high rises.
    All of my loud anger dissipated in a split second, replaced just as quickly by silent fear and dread.  I glanced at my watch.  Panic dropped into my stomach like an anvil on the Looney Tunes.  I’d been walking for a full half hour.  Who knew where I’d walked in that amount of time.
    I started walking back the way I’d come.  Hopefully I’d see some landmark I recognized and be able to head home.  No such luck.  I reached the corner just to see another cobblestone road stretching in either direction to uncertain destinations.  The silence began to really bother me.  I stood on the corner and strained to hear a familiar sound.  Where were all the angry shouts and blaring horns from the main avenue?  What happened to all the people talking, yelling, whispering, and muttering?
    Frantic, I turned right.  My walking speed grew each second.  Before I knew it, I was running.  All I wanted was to find something familiar.  Anything familiar would be better than being lost.  I sped around corners, zig-zagging through the streets as I looked for something I recognized.
    Finally I saw a small shop opening.  Maybe I could get directions there, I thought.  For a moment the panic relaxed.  Then I realized I had no idea what my address was.  The panic returned in full force, threatening to cripple me.  I stopped running outside the store, my feet almost seemed glued to the concrete.
    I shoved my hands into my pockets, hoping to find anything I could use to get home.  My left hand crumpled a small piece of paper.  I yanked it out, remembering immediately what it was.  Mom had practically forced me to carry a small card with our address on it whenever I went out just in case something like this happened.  In that moment, I praised Mom’s foresight and turned to the store’s entrance.
    There was a woman there, her eyes laughing at me as if she knew exactly what was going on.  I looked at her then back down at my paper.
    “Puedo ayudarte, hijo?” Can I help you, Son? she asked.
    “Sí.”  I answered quickly.  “Como llegar a la dirección?” How to get to the address? I asked, handing her the paper.
    Her rolling eyes said it all as she reached out to take the card. “Turista?” Tourist? she asked casually.
    “No. Mi papá es con la mina.” No, my Dad is with the mine.
    She looked at the paper for a short second followed by a series of rapid-fire sentences that were completely lost on me.
    “Bien, hijito.  Para nada difícil.  Primero vete a la esquinita.  A la derecha y sigues a la izquierdita.  Después de tres cuadritas, otra derechita y, ay, pucha! Ahisito está la avenida.  Facilito de allí.”
    She must have seen my scared and blank look because she repeated the sentences a second time.  This time I caught every fifth word or so, but nowhere near enough to really understand.  When she saw that I didn’t understand again, she held up one finger and turned to go back inside.
    “Espera un momento.” Wait a moment, she said.
    She was only gone for a second before she returned with a bigger piece of paper and a pencil.  I sighed in relief, she was going to draw me a map.
    “Ven aquí.” Come here.
    I walked over to her and watched as she very slowly explained how to get back to my neighborhood.  I strained to catch what she said and began to pick out details I had missed in the last two attempts.  When she was finally done, she handed me the map.
    “Entendiste?” Did you understand?  She asked
    “Sí.” Yes. I answered confidently.  I shook her hand and took off down the street.
    The map was simple enough to follow.  As I thought back to her first descriptions, I began to recognize some of the words I’d missed.  I was very glad I’d found someone to help, despite the language barrier. 
    As I turned the corner, I saw the wonderful sight of the main avenue cluttered with cars of all colors and ages and types.  Fifteen-passenger vans and pick-ups vied for a position on the road with motorcycles and sports cars.  The horns which had been blaring earlier now seemed like a comfortable symphony.  All panic dissipated like the anger it had replaced.  From the main drag it was a simple matter to get home.
    As I opened the front gate with my keys, a familiar aroma tickled my nose.  I couldn’t quite place it at first; it seemed too out of place.  The closer I got to the front door, however, the more familiar it became.  I walked into the kitchen and saw Mom standing by the counter placing a small yellow birthday candle right in the middle of a loaf of banana bread.
    “Oh hi, Kiddo.” she said.  “It took me a while, but I finally found a recipe and ingredients to make your banana bread.  It doesn’t have chocolate chips, though.”
    I breathed deep, taking in the rich aroma of the banana bread.  I couldn’t believe it.  I walked over to Mom and gave her a hug.
    “Thanks, Mom.”  I said.
    “You’re welcome, Jonathan.  Happy Birthday.”

The Worshipper

    My name is Klars.  I make a living from the fruit orchard that I have.  I live with my wife Sarah, my son Dreft, and my daughter Frega.  I live in a small town in the nation of Surdoma.  Most of the people that live here are farmers and small merchants.  Though it is a small town, it is the center for the worship of the Prince.
On the southern end of the town there is a tall green hill with a deep bowl with seats delved into the top.  Every spring people from all over the nation and the world come to our town to worship the Awesome Prince on the hill.  I don’t know how we can have so many people in this small town, but we do.  Most of the travelers bring tents and live on the edge of town.  It is the best time of year for business.  In the town, I set up a stand in the square with all the other farmers and sell my surplus fruit to travelers. 
Last year was the most extraordinary worship experience I had ever had.  It was the largest gathering I had ever seen.  People from almost every nation in the world came to worship the Prince.  I was surprised at the amount of people, but I was happy that my sales would be large.  I worked all day and got enough money to last me for a long time.  I was very happy.
When I got home that night I showed my wife the amount of money I had made.  She was ecstatic and insisted on having a celebration.  We had a large dinner with some of our best friends and family.  It was delicious.  We had sheep stew and fresh bread with real butter from one of my cows.  We all left the table satisfied and happy.
The next day was the day of worship.  I woke up early and dressed for the occasion.  I prayed for an hour like I did every morning.  I talked to the Prince of my troubles and thanked him especially for the bounty that he had given my family.  Then I walked with my family towards the hill.
The Prince has no priest, but every year he singles out one man to be the worship leader.  No one knew who it would be.  The leader was always chosen on the day of worship.  Before we went up the hill we washed our hands in basins of clear pure water and prayed for forgiveness for any offense we had committed.  The hill was holy ground and we must be pure of hand and heart to worship.
We were not the first to arrive.  We had gotten there early, but many people were already there preparing to worship.  We sat near the end because we did not want to be noticed.  No one from either of our families had ever led worship and we never expected to.  We followed the Prince passively, but many other families followed him more actively.  We would pray and spend time with him, but others would go to the rest of the world and spread the knowledge about him.
Finally, everybody was there.  The stadium was filled to overflowing with people.  In unison everyone began to sing a song of worship that would start off the ceremony of worship.  As I sang I felt a little different than in years before.  I felt that something important was going to happen this year.  I sang with a loud voice and before long was drowning out my family’s weaker voices.  Soon, the song came to a close.
Everyone fell silent.  They were waiting expectantly for the worship leader to be chosen.  Everyone felt that the Prince was making his choice.  When a worship leader was chosen, a bird that had been set in the middle of the ring of people would fly and land on that person’s right shoulder.  I kept my eyes closed in worship.  Soon I heard a slight flapping of wings and felt something land on my right shoulder.
I cracked open my right eye and saw the bird sitting on my shoulder staring at me with its deep blue eyes.  I knew I had been chosen.  I said a quick prayer for the right words and stood up.  My wife looked up at me with a proud look on her face.  I walked to the aisle and walked down the stairs as everybody watched me with awe.
When I reached the bottom and stood in the grassy ring I looked around me and saw everybody that had come to worship the Prince staring expectantly at me.  I felt overwhelmed.  I fell to my knees and said another prayer for guidance and ability.  I stood up and felt very confident.  The Prince was right next to me whispering the words to say.
“Have you come to worship the Prince?”  I yelled over the silence.
A small roar answered my question.
“I cannot hear the Worshippers of the King!”  I called out again.
This time, a roar that shook the entire hill answered me.  I knew I was ready.  This was what I had been created for.  I raised my voice in a song of worship and everyone soon joined in.  Though the entire nation was singing, I could still hear my voice above the thousands of other voices.
After the first song finished, I fell to my knees in prayerful worship.  I hear the rustling of thousands of clothes as almost everyone else did the same.  I must have stayed in that position for at least an hour, but no one seemed to mind.  We were all engrossed in the worship of the Prince.  When I finally stood up, I had tears in my eyes.  Once again I raised my voice in another song of worship.  Within seconds the entire congregation joined me.
We sang until noon.  At that time I felt the Prince telling me to stop.  I finished the song and then made a motion for everyone to sit down.  I then began a speech of thanks to the Prince for everything that he had given us that year.  I told the people there that we were supposed to thank him for good and bad things.  Everything in our lives had purpose.  I also explained that our thanks was also worship.  We had to worship the Prince year round, not only one day a year.  I spoke for about two hours.  When I finished, a round of deafening applause rang on the hill.
The whole time the bird had stood on my shoulder.  Everyone knew that when it took flight, the service was done.  It didn’t usually stay too long.  Usually it left after the worship leader spoke.  This time it stayed.  I began another song and everyone joined in.  We sang for a long time, but the bird wouldn’t leave.  Finally, in the middle of a song I asked the Prince what was going on.  He answered that he wanted the people to know that he was really in control.  He also wanted people to know that I was going to lead worship again soon.
When that song ended, I told the people what the Prince had said.  The thundering yells and applause of approval almost deafened me.  Once that had died down, the bird took flight.  Immediately, whispering could be heard throughout the stadium and everyone stood up and began to leave.  My wife and children came down the stairs to me and hugged me.
They were proud of me.  I knew it.  The Prince was proud of me.  I knew it.  I thanked him quietly as I watched the bird slowly fly towards the sky.

New Posts Forthcoming!

So, I know I haven't been posting in a while, but there is more to come.  I finally have some free time to write.  College life really takes its tole on writing.  Anyway, I will again attempt to publish something weekly.  If I don't, feel free to email me and remind me.  I can always use the encouragement/pressure to write.  Thanks!  Also, I will be attempting to compile notes in order to write a novel this coming November.  For that reason, I won't be posting during that month, but I may post a couple of chapters later on.  As readers on my blog, you might get a "sneak preview" of what I'm writing.
Anyway, thanks for reading!  Keep up the curiosity and imagination!

DQ

The Song of Allakin

Long ago when the world was young
Before a single song was sung
He wandered far across the earth
North and South and East and West
He walked it all, its immense berth
Allakin the world did test.

Not god or man but spirit still
He walked and ran and leapt until
The cliffs of Stzêrad he did reach
In the North they rose quite sheer
Without a seam or crack or breach
Even then he knew no fear.

With laughter shrill he leapt on high
Then Allakin was first to fly
From base to peak in single bound
He reached the top of the earth
Where there is not a single sound
Except the wind’s whistling mirth.

Then Allakin turned round and saw
All Niatorun with great awe
From North to South to East to West
He saw it all completely
Ev’ry forest and songbird’s nest
He saw and knew totally.

At Stzêrad still a man can hear
Amidst the ice and cliffs so sheer
A laughter shrill of joy so pure
That will bring healing with hope
To pains and cares that men endure
And allow them then to cope.

Yela'il's Shrine

A note on the pronunciation of unfamiliar terms:
Yela'il: rhymes with "eel."  Yĕ-la-(soft pause)-ēl
Olsar: rhymes with "star."

Over stone and under tree
Trav’lers walk and creatures creep
Over lands where’er we see
Peaks and fields and oceans deep.

Over earth and under sun
People from afar did come
To see the work that had been done
Of all the works of men, the sum.

Over land and under cloud
Demons came with horrid sound
Their ranks hiding in a shroud
With anger their ranks war-bound.

Over sand and under sky
Nations all came out to fight
Armor shined and spirits high
Ranks of soldiers quite a sight.

Blood ran red and hope ran low
Hatred in the world made known
Demonic force in their glow
Vying for the mortal throne.

Under Olsar’s silver sheen
Upon the high mountain’s scree
From afar their plight was seen
By a single, lonesome tree.

Worried for the plight of men
The tree wanted it to end
It called for help in ev’ry glen
And around each river’s bend.

When nothing answered his plea
Anxiousness began to grow
It was eating at the tree
Like the cawing of a crow.

Then that tree its roots did free
Breaking out its earthly seal
It moved away, the goddess to see
To seek out fair Yela’il.

Day and night that tree did run
Searching far and wide and low
Under moons and under sun
The goddess’s delightful glow.

Finally the tree did find
The goddess in her forest shrine.
In the language of its kind
The tree’s news reached the divine.

With one breath the goddess blessed
The tree that the news did fetch
In its limbs she placed a nest
With one egg, an orphaned wretch.

In the next breath she ran off
Faster than an eagle’s flight
The tree settled in a trough
And roots and earth then did unite.

To this day that tree does stand
In Yela’il’s forest shrine
The nest a solid silver band
In it long the egg did shine

Long-forgotten, long-detatched
The egg lay silent in its nest.
Finally the bird was hatched
Happy was the tree at rest.

With red, gold, and royal blue
It flew round and sang its tune
Any little simple cue
Would start a song from dawn to noon.


Rumors of the war did reach
The glade in which the tree did stand
At every death the bird would screech
As blood ran out into the sand.

When the war did end at last,
Yela’il came back to call
On that tree she’d left so fast
And on the bird now strong and tall.

Once again she blessed the tree
This time with the pow’r of speech
And when people came to see
The tree then would speak to each.

Rumors spread across the land
Of Yela’il’s speaking tree
And bird with the golden band
And the wisdom of the three.

People came from far and wide
To hear the wisdom of the tree
In him many would confide
And leave happy, truly free.

People came from ev’rywhere
To hear the song of the bird
When the song’s notes reached the air
No one could even speak a word.

When Yela'il would join in
The world would stop in wonder
Thinking it must be a sin
To stop their song by blunder.

Thus became Yela'il's shrine
Deep in the forested hills
To this day it does shine
Goddess, tree, and the bird's trills.

The Champion

    As the crows let out their deep-throated calls, a young man glanced up at them.  Their squawk sounded erie to him, even ominous.  The black birds circled hungrily around him, as if waiting for him to die.  His eyes followed their flight for a moment, captured by the hungry look in their eyes and the steadiness of their wings.  He looked down at his shaking hands.  His sword and shield rattled even more as he tried to stop the shaking.
    Suddenly, the clash of battle came sharply into focus when a friend yelled his name.  He shook his head quickly, and with one smooth movement, swung his sword right through a charging enemy’s neck.  He quickly became absorbed in the heat of battle.  Stroke by stroke his enemies fell.  No wonder he was called a champion of champions and a warrior of warriors.  None could stand in his way.
    When the noise of battle stopped, he looked back down at his bloody hands.  They weren’t shaking.  He calmly wiped his sword off on a small patch of green grass, soiling the last few clean blades of grass on the field.  Sheathing his sword, he walked over to where his shield had been yanked off his arm.  He picked it up, and, not noticing any major problems with it, slung it over his shoulder.
    The crows called out again with their voices of death, and he looked up at them.  This time, though, it was not with apprehension, but with defiance.  He followed one’s flight as it dove hungrily towards one of his fallen comrades. In one smooth motion, he plucked a spear from the chest of a man next to him and hurled it through the crow’s head before it even landed on the man.  Those few remaining survivors looked over at him with fear, knowing that they could easily be his next target.
    He calmly walked off the battlefield and into his tent.  When the flap closed behind him, he looked down at his hands for the third time.  They were shaking worse than they had been before the battle.  Before long, he was lying on the dirt floor sobbing quietly.  The stench of death from the nearby field only accentuated the anguish he felt at the deathblows he had dealt and at the deaths of his companions.
    He lay there for a long time, before composing himself enough to remove his armor.  When he took it off, he noticed it was covered in blood, both on the outside, and on the inside.  He slowly ran his hands over his body, searching for wounds.  It would not be good to be careless and die because he did not notice a gash in his flesh.  As he finished his inspection, he realized that the blood on his armor was not his.  It must have been the blood of his enemies that had crept onto his chest.  The thought of the death of so many men flung back into a fit of sobs that he was incapable of stopping.
    Before long, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder pulling him upright from the dust on the floor.  When he looked up, his eyes met those of his closest friend.  Though he was not sobbing, the friend’s eyes were also full of tears that were dripping into his scrawny beard.  The first man stood up and embraced his friend, beginning to sob once again.  The friend cried with him for a time and then pushed him away.
    “Death is an inevitable part of life, Petrus.” the friend said.  “We must not revel in battle, yet, as people who are ever in conflict, we must not shy away from it either.  You are a champion on the field, a powerful warrior, and a worthy adversary.  It is right to mourn the men who died today, both those you killed and those others killed.  We must not, though let the memories of their faces haunt us.  Instead, let us celebrate their lives and that they died valiantly facing death, without regrets.”
    Petrus looked at his friend solemnly, the tears beginning to dry up.  Understanding slowly began to grow in his face until it seemed to glow.  Slowly, almost as if he was still struggling with the thought of it, a slight smile began to grow on his face.
    “At least you and I are alive still, Markus.”  He chuckled.  “What would your mother say if I had left you here?”
    As if on cue, both friends began to howl with laughter.  From outside the tent, some of the other soldiers looked at the tent questioningly, wondering whether those men within were possessed by demons, or simply out of their minds.  Some of the older men chuckled quietly into their beards and returned to cleaning their armor.  Others shook their heads in contempt and walked on.  Many of the younger men made signs to ward off evil and stared wide-eyed at the tent of the champion, hoping he wasn’t coming for them next.
    After a long while, the friends calmed down.  They sat down next to each other on a bench in the tent and smiled.  Markus looked over at Petrus and leaned his elbows on his knees.
    “I can tell you she wouldn’t be happy.”  Markus joked.  “She might even chase you away with a frying pan.”
    Petrus smiled at this.  “Your right.  She probably would!”  Then he said seriously, “But she’d also accuse me of murder.  I don’t want that to happen.”
    Markus looked over at his friend’s face.  He pressed his jaw together in a tough smile and nodded his head.  The two friends stood up and faced each other.
    “You may be the king’s champion,” Markus said, “but I’m your back-up.  Never forget that.”
    Markus stretched out his right arm towards Petrus.  Petrus looked down at it, and grasped it with his own.  They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other.
    “I’ll never forget that, Markus.”  Petrus said.  “Never.”
    Markus smiled then said, “Of course you won’t!  You’re the Champion, you can’t forget anything!”
    The friends pulled into a rough embrace that quickly turned into a wrestling match.  Of course, Petrus pinned Markus in only a few brief seconds.  Then Petrus got off his friend and reached out his hand to help him up.
    As he pulled Markus up, he said, “No, that’s why I’m the Champion.”

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

"'Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the house..."
"I know, I know."  I said.  "Is there any way we could make this any more interesting, Dad?"
"Why?" he answered. "It's a classic!"
"Yeah," I sighed, "but it gets boring hearing it year after year.  Can't we spice it up at all?  Maybe make it an action movie style?"
Dad just looked at me strangely.  Of course he wouldn't understand.  He'd already been desensitized to the poem.  It was about time someone told this story a different way to help all the suffering kids in the world who grow up listening to the same poem told the same way year after year.  Here's what I was picturing.

So there I was, lying quietly in my bed.  It was Christmas eve.  The only noise came from the winter wind gusting outside my well-sealed window.  The decorations were up.  I pictured my red and green striped stocking perfectly hanging from the edge of the fireplace.  Being the kid I was, I had my fingers crossed hoping that Santa Claus would come and fill the entire living room with presents only for me.  I was an only child, and would've gotten spoiled anyway, but Santa gave me an excuse to ask for it.
Mom and Dad had tucked me into bed earlier that evening.  When they left they told me to dream about "sugar-plums."  I had no idea what those were, so I was thinking about M&M's and Skittles instead.  Despite all my best efforts, though, I couldn't fall asleep.  My Superman pajamas seemed to make it itchy everywhere.  Now that I look back, it could've simply been the anticipation.  Not too long after being tucked in, I knew my parents were asleep, judging by the steady stream of snoring coming from down the hall.  I just shook my head and rolled over.
Suddenly, I heard a huge noise from outside.  It wasn't just the thump of a large bit of snow falling off the roof.  It sounded like a cross between a Christmas song on the radio and a car crash.  Despite the cold, I jumped out of bed and ran to the window.  I was halfway there when I remembered to put my slippers on.  I rushed back to the bed, threw my feet into the soft tigers, and ran to the window.  Even though they know I hate it when my curtains are closed, my parents had closed them again tonight.  I struggled with them for a while before throwing them open.
The moon was shining brightly on the yard.  It was so bright it almost looked like day time.  I looked up at it and noticed it was almost full.  "That's weird," I thought, "the moon was only a small sliver yesterday."  I shrugged and returned my attention to the front lawn.  My eyes immediately grew to the size of my aunt's molasses cookies (and let me tell you, they're huge!).  There was Santa's sleigh!  I counted the eight reindeer, just to make sure.  It, he, was real!  It was sitting right on my front lawn!  I could barely hold my excitement.  I almost let out a high-pitched screech.  Fortunately, I was able to contain myself and content myself with shaking with happiness.
A small person hopped out of the driver's seat and began moving around the sleigh and the reindeer.  I didn't have to look twice to guess who that was.  It was Santa Claus!  He was talking and calming the reindeer.  He let out a shrill whistle and, through some trick of the acoustics, I was able to hear every word he said.  He called out to each of the reindeer by name.
Santa stepped back onto the sleigh and into the driver's seat and called out.  "Alright, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen!" (I, being a big fan, was able to say each name along with the old man.) "Put your backs into it, lads!  We've got to get to the top of this here house!  Pull!  Dash away!"  I was mesmerized by Santa's enthusiasm.  He was never like this at the mall.  He always seemed slow and careful.  I wouldn't blame him.  The guy looked old enough to be my dad's grandfather!
To my surprise, the reindeer, straining against the reins, dashed forward, and before they hit the angry neighbor's fence, leaped into the air.  Now my mouth joined my eyes in mimicking my aunt's molasses cookies.  They circled around a couple of times.  I guess they were trying to find a good place to land.  Finally, on the third time around, they landed on the roof, spraying snow everywhere.  I didn't wait to figure out if Santa had made it safely to the roof.  I ran downstairs to watch him come down the chimney.
Each step I made down the stairs was repeated on the roof by the reindeer's hooves.  Each time my foot hit one stair with a muted thud, a reindeer's hoof would clack on the roof with a slight jingle of bells.  When I reached the bottom, the noises on the roof stopped, and my dad's snoring regained it's dominance in sound for a bit.  Then, a solid thud resounded on the roof.  Then, similar thuds echoed as someone moved towards the chimney.  I quickly looked around for a place to hide.  I didn't want Santa to see me up this late.  Finally, I decided to hide under the dining room table, across the room from the tree and fireplace.  The footsteps finally reached the chimney, and Santa Claus slipped down the chimney with a grating noise and plenty of grunting.  I guess they don't make chimneys as big as they used to.
Then, suddenly, Santa Claus was standing in the fireplace.  I knew it was him immediately.  He was wearing his classic red and white outfit, though it had soot and ash smudges all over the place.  I obviously wasn't his first stop.  That was fine with me, as long as he left a bunch of presents for me!  My eyes turned to his bag of goodies on his back.  I was almost drooling with anticipation.  When he set down his bag and began to look through it, he reminded me of one of those street vendors who carry their stores on their backs.  I almost laughed he looked so funny.
When he resurfaced from looking through his bag, I got a good look at his face.  His dark eyes were shining and twinkling with the Christmas tree lights.  He had a big smile on his face and his cheeks were bright red.  I guessed it must be cold flying around in the middle of winter.  Now I was glad that I had convinced my mom to leave hot chocolate instead of milk for Santa.  I guessed he'd probably appreciate it more.  If his cheeks were red with cold, his nose was bright red.  It looked like one of those cherries that you put on the top of an ice cream sundae.  His huge white beard reached down to the middle of his chest.
He had a piece of wood sticking out of his mouth.  I had no idea why, but there was smoke coming from it.  I guessed it was something like a cigarette, but more old-fashioned.  In any case, the smoke seemed to be contained.  After leaving the pipe, it circled around his head like the green circle thing we hung on our door during Christmas.  He was even fatter than I had imagined him.  He chuckled as he moved around.  His humungous belly bounced like a big water balloon every time he moved or laughed.  I almost burst out laughing myself again, but forced myself to hold it in.
Every time his huge belly bounced, I tried to hold my laughter in, but that didn't last long.  I finally let out a huge laugh that I was sure was going to wake up my dad and get me coal in my stocking.  He turned and looked right at me.  Then he picked up a cookie from the table and winked at me.  I understood that there was nothing to be afraid of.  I carefully crawled out from under the table and walked back toward the staircase.  I turned around wand watched the old man get to work.
He never said anything to me, but immediately began to bustle around the room.  He downed the hot chocolate and the other two cookies with gusto and a big belch before turning to the stockings.  In a flash, he had filled all three stockings to bursting with candies and small toys.  Then, he got to my favorite part: the presents.  One after another he pulled them out from the bag and put them under the tree in an organized mess.  Some were huge packages and others were smaller than my hand, but I knew that all of them were going to be great.  To my slight disappointment he didn't fill the entire room with presents.  I realized that that would be too many to open in one day anyway and contented myself with what I got.  When he finished pulling presents out of the bag, he stepped back into the fireplace.  He put his right thumb against his nose, and, with another wink and a nod, disappeared back up the chimney.
I heard his thumping boots on the roof again for a little and then, I heard a shrill whistle.  With a jingle of bells, the clack of reindeer hooves, and the scrapes of a sled on snow, I knew that Santa had taken off the roof again.  I ran up the stairs, hoping to get one last glimpse of that jolly old man before waiting for a full year to see him again.  When I reached my window, I heard him give his classic call out from down the street.  "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"  I smiled and, yawning, went back to bed.  I was ready for Christmas to start the next day.

When I told my dad that version of the story, he smiled.  "I guess that wasn't so bad."  He said.  "I still like the original better, though."
"Well," I said, "sometimes new ways of telling old stories are good."
"That's true." he agreed.  "Now good night.  Your mom will kill me if you're not in bed in time!"
He gave me a kiss and tucked me into my nice warm covers.
"Sleep tight, Kiddo."
"G'night, Dad."
"Love you!"
"Love you too.  And, Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas." He answered with a smile that looked almost like how I imagined Santa's must look.