As Thanksgiving ends, the weather chills, people begin drinking more egg nog than should be legal, and Santa crosses the square in the middle of the Macey's Thanksgiving Day Parade, I begin to think about Christmas.
Now, at this stage in the holiday season, I begin trying to list who I'll be buying presents for, and what they'll be getting. For most people, it won't be material. For the people I care about the most, we'll, they'll end up dying in a short story.
See, I must back track first. One of the best writers of my life time, [though she is in fact a bit older than I am.] Laurel K. Hamilton once said that the highest compliment she can give to someone is to kill them off.
Basically, I think the same way. Sort of. It's either they die, or they're the killer.
The more gruesome the kills, the more respect I have for them. Or I just like them more.
So, I either begin a series of creepy stories, and hand them out, or I make homemade cards.
Which are dumb.
Stories it is.
Or a book.
Or maybe dinner and a movie on me. Take your pick.
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