Tuesday, December 15, 2015

A Christmas Carol Parody

Last year I attended a Christmas party for my local writers' group and we were asked to prepare something to read to share the Christmas spirit with all who were there.

I immediately came up with a wonderful idea and wrote a rather shaggy dog story with my background antagonist being Elizabeth McKnight, the lovely and talented lady who runs the meetings.

I think she forgave me.

I hope.

A Christmas Carol
(With sincere apologies to Charles Dickens),
by Alan Loewen

I had just settled my brain for a long winter’s nap when the bed shook as somebody sat at its foot. Jarred awake, in a flurry of fear and wonder I stared at a little girl dressed in white and glowing with a delicate aura. With an angry glare, she pointed a finger at me directly at me.

“Elizabeth McKnight,” she intoned, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past!”

With a trembling hand, I flicked on the lamp on my bed stand. “‘Scuse me,” I said, “but I think you have the wrong address. And the wrong gender as well.”

The ghost’s eyes grew wide. “It’s that stupid GPS again! I have no idea why Upstairs insists we use one.” Her eyes got larger and she pointed at my bed stand. “Are those rum balls?” she said with obvious excitement.

I confess I am very protective over my favorite Christmas candy. “Well …you know you’re rather young for a candy made with an adult beverage,” I said nervously.

“I’ll have you know,” she said with a pretty, little pout, “I’m almost two thousand years old.” With that she swooped up the box.

A knock came from the door. It opened and a massive man dressed in green and red and holly and evergreen boughs and flaming candles worked his bulk into my bedroom. “Elizabeth McKnight,” he intoned. Suddenly he stopped, looked at me and then at the little ghost girl.

“GPS snafu?” he asked her. She nodded, unable to speak as her cheeks were stuffed with rum-flavored confections.

“Are those rum balls?” he asked.

I attempted a mad grab for the box but the massive Ghost of Christmas Present snatched them up first.

Moments later, a spectral shade clothed in a grave shroud materialized in my bedroom and pointed a bony finger at me.

“GPS error!” the two other ghosts shouted.

“Recalculating!” the Ghost of Christmas Past yelled and then giggled.

The specter pointed a hand trembling with excitement at my box of diminishing rum balls.

I’ve gotten up and dressed and now I’m driving my unexpected guests over to Liz McKnight’s house  where I plan on presenting her with three ghosts who are unusually giddy over the last of my favorite Christmas candy. However, I still have the last laugh.

Being a teetotaler, my beloved rum balls are definitely non-alcoholic.

1 comment:

  1. Thankfully the ones that went after Scrooge had better aim, else today everyone would be reading "A Christmas Humbug."