Since lots of people do ‘It’s Christmas And I’m Happy’ posts on their blogs, I though I would not do that this year. I’m doing a ‘It’s The Day After Christmas And I’m Happier’, so stay tuned. However, for this wonderful Christmas Eve, I thought I would write a short, short story and then take a thesaurus and replace all the words I can with stranger ones. So, here goes:
Once on top of an age, not so far away from a far-away place, there resided a girl christened Marie. Despite the fact that she was juvenile, she had no siblings or close relatives. Her father had been abducted by apes requesting how to make conflagrations; he had eventually matured in a man-village. As the grief-stricken existence following that had past, her mother grew increasingly despondent until the high-quality faerie came and turned her into an oak tree which blew over in a tempest anyway. So Marie was all alone in the cruel vastness of the world.
Upon her twelfth birthday, Marie determined to hunt for her affluence like the underprivileged children constantly do in this type of chronicle. She shouldered her paltry personal effects on her back and sauntered out the entrance of her little hovel, never to come again. Before her lay Winter’s exertion, a forest of trees embellished with deep frost, whose branches bowed and nearly touched the soil. The earth itself was cast of snow, it seemed. Not a clamor could be perceived, proving that if a tree cascades in a forest and not a soul hears, it doesn’t make a reverberation.
Marie seized the twosome of nuclear-rocket-propelled-skates/skis/boots/toothbrush that her father had given her just the hours of darkness prior to when he was found missing, and fastened them to her feet. She decided that whatsoever ensued, she wouldn’t segregate with these affectionate contributions. “Five, four, three, two, one,” she calculated leisurely to manufacture the trepidation and to adjoin word count to this narrative, and pressed the Big Red Button. The nuclear-rocket-propelled-skates/skis/boots/toothbrush commenced violently through the wooded plain, and though the iniquitous badgers of the forest pursued her with cunning merriment, she managed to evade every ambush.
After two seconds of journey, she pushed the Big Not-Red Button. The nuclear-rocket-propelled-skates/skis/boots/toothbrush stopped. Before her lolled a coastline of which corporeal man has by no means seen. A young man was there, conceivably as infantile as she. He was trailing a stick in the water.
“Hullo,” he said. “Hi,” she answered. With this variety of chatter, they were presently the paramount of associates. The boy’s family name was Hophman Jerribaldy Adams Woldcough Lewis Martin Stromboll the Third. They exchanged IM screen names and set off walking along the duration of the seaside.
Out of the blue, an enormous hoard of buccaneers sprang from the clam-holes at their feet. “Harr, maties! Look at wot we’ve found ‘ere!” One of the crew sneered down at the children. Before long, both H. J. A. W. L. M. S. the Third and Marie were locked rigid in the hold of a gargantuan vessel called Rottingham. “We’ll look after yew two like yew were our own li’l tykes,” the skipper had joked, “after we show yew the interior of a shark!”
The series of events was unfortunate. H. J. A. W. L. M. S. the Third had a diminutive morsel of fresh bread, margarine, mutton, eggs, cheese, a Biggie Fry, two Whoppers, a Reuben, and five side-salads in his receptacle. As they nibbled this miniature final serving of food, Marie heard a resonance. It was Little John! According to the grapevine, he had gotten the names mixed up on his cartograph and had arrived at the Rottingham by inaccuracy. He soon called in the neighboring authorities, who flew the pirates to a saline colliery by helicopter. The children were over the moon with happiness and pledged on no account to make fun of Santa Claus another time.
And the great big cheese wheel rolled down the street, and everyone was happy again.