A Glimpse at the Work In Progess!

Dear Reader: What follows is a Sneak Peek at the tale we are working up for you this Holiday Season! It is the story of a Christmas that Almost Wasn't—when most of the reindeer came down with Caribou Flu and no one knew how the Old Man's sleigh would take to the skies. We had hoped to have it done today, but Time has conspired against us. With the prayers of the Good Sisters of Our Lady of Perpetual Winter, we'll have an e-story by Christmas!

Read on, and wet your whistle—much more will be coming soon!

Yours truly,

Siberius Quill

* * * * *

In a snug room in the back corner of the barn and stables, Hiram Deervermer slept soundly, his snores rattling the latch of the heavy plank door. Old Hitch, as he was known among his friends and family, had been chief herdsman and head of the Stable Corps for long years now, since the retirement of his great-grandfather Rangifer, and had lived at the stables since the untimely passing of his wife, Cervidia. He was stout for an elf, nearly as wide as he was tall, balding and beardless, but with magnificent black mutton-chops on both cheeks, and the same sparkling blue eyes of his sister’s sons.

Silas rapped on the thick door with his knuckles and called out, “Uncle Hiram?” A snore shook the door in reply.

He knocked again and called louder: “Uncle Hiram!” No response at all. He banged the door with the side of his fist. “Hey! Uncle Hiram! Wake up!”

From behind the door, Silas heard a grumble and the groan of old bedsprings, then silence. “Uncle Hiram?” he called. A snore like the snarl of a wolverine was followed by the deep and peaceful breaths of slumber.

“HITCH DEERVERMER!” shouted Silas, pounding with all his might. “AY! HITCH! RISE AND SHINE!”

“Antlers in velvet!” cried the old elf. “At this black hour? Who pummels my door?”

“Your nephew, Uncle,” said Silas, grinning at his uncle’s grouchiness. “And all hours are black this time of year. It’s time for the morning feeding, and most of the herd is sick. Come quick!”