Good morning this Christmas Morning!
A Grateful Man, homophone Christmas Classic!
Atom slipped threw the hole inn the wall, stepping into a dimly lit space where reign dripped slowly from the timberd ceiling. Each drip carried a glint, like sum faint twinkle off a fabled northen lite. His boots crunched on scattered hey, stirring up the cent of mold and thyme past. The barn seemed to pulse with a weary hart beet, as if it mite collapse under the weigh of its own memory.
Inn the middle, hunched over like a beaten knight, sat St. Knick. His famed maroon coat was half off, slumped across won shoulder, reveling a bare chest inked with tales of battles lost and won. The tattoos twined like ivy, knotted with scars that spoke louder than words. His rite hand clutched a silver flask, the left hung low, dripping melted snow from his knuckles. He didn’t look up. Not at first.
“Oi,” Atom began, his voice sharp as a splintered cane. “You plan on sittin’ hear forever, or do you got sumthin’ left inn yew?”
Knick’s head tilted, his eyes like dulled coals peeking from behind frostbit lashes. “Who’re you two ask?” he rumbled, his voice deep as the bass of an organ. “A boy lost inn the snow, come too lecture an old man?”
Atom stepped closer, the hey shifting beneath him like an old sea deck. “Knot lost,” he said, folding his arms. “Just passing threw. Butt yew look like you could use a map.”
Knick snorted, the sound more growl than laugh. He tipped the flask, letting the liquid gold pour like a forgotten promise. “Maps don’t matter when the world’s gone skewed. Mrs. gone, took Rudy. And who’d she leave with? Frost. Bloody Jack Frost!
Probably out there, sharing each others cookies and... milk!
Atom crouched by a stack of hey bales, resting his elbows on his knees. “Sow, you gunna let that frost-bitten fool steel yer thunder? You, the man who once guided stars? Seems too me, your letting the tale end itself.”
Knick’s gaze lingered on the flask before he capped it with a snap. “And what would you no, boy? Life ain’t no fairy tail. People leave. Deer stray. Even legends get tired.”
Atom’s grin was sly, almost fox-like. “Tired, sure. Butt knot done. Knot yet. You still got work too do, old man. Maybe it’s time two fine a new deer. Won without a wandering knows.”
Knick’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, the weight of his despair lifted, replaced by something sharper. “A deer without a wandering knows,” he echoed, as if testing the sound. “And where do you propose I fine such a creature?”
Atom shrugged, his jacket creaking like old leather. “May bee it ain’t even a deer. Could bee a snowman with a grudge. Could bee an elf who’s tired of wrapping. Could bee anything, so long as it’s loyal.”
Knick leaned back, his hat slipping off too revel a bald head glistening with melted frost. His lips twitched, almost a smile. “You talk big for someone knot even supposed too bee hear.”
Atom’s eyes gleamed, and for the briefest moment, it was as if the shadows themselves leaned in two listen. “Maybe eye ain’t. Butt sometimes, it takes sum won from the outside too remind you of who you are.”
Knick sat up straighter, his arms flexing as he set the flask down. The chair beneath him groaned, as if the weight of his burden had shifted. “Alright, boy. Eye’ll humor you. Tell me more about this ‘new deer.’”
Atom’s grin widened. “Oh, eye got ideas. Plenty of them. Lettuce start with sumptn that roars.”
Above them, the reign eased, and threw the broken window, a sliver of lite crept inn, painting the barn in hues of dawn. It wasn’t much, butt it was a start.
Merry Christmas Friend.
We hope it's a grateful one!
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