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The Night Before Christmas Story/poetry EVENT!
Poetry Contest Description
Write a detailed story/poem about The Night before Christmas..
Write a detailed story /poem, but preferably a
story about the Night Before Christmas
Minimum word count for poems must be at least 24 lines or 6 stanzas, which is the same thing..
No word limit on stories
Extra credit for using Dup members
No Colabs
Any mood
All winners get a ribbon reflecting where they placed in the competition.
The First place winner also gets an extra prize/gift for Christmas, from me
Your very own Personalized HTML graphic tag!
This event will have 4 winners..
First place
Second place
Third place
The best of the worst!
This is a huge event so bring your A- game or go home !
The Night before Christmas
It was the night before Christmas. There! I have always wanted to say that, but I had no excuse to, actually. Telling this story is therefore two pronged…to tell it and to use that word. An obsession really; and not to copy good Mr. Clement Clarke Moore.
Now this event occurred many years ago when I was still a spritely teenager and a very active member of our Catholic Legion of Mary team.
There were about 12 of us juniors in that group, aged between ten and 15, and as such we were quite rambunctious much to the chagrin of our Priest and his Senior Legionnaires. We were often chastised with Hail Marys and Our Fathers for stealing fruits from the church orchard or running round and round the good Padre’s house. He did have a nicely trimmed garden as opposed to our paddy fields.
It so happened that we were also members of the church choir which we took to with a zest that was almost horrifying. Our hallelujahs shook the rafters and our Amens were enthusiastic enough to wake the dead.
Several days before Christmas, we went caroling, all 12 of us, with our leader carrying Christmas cards and an empty biscuit tin to put our collection in. This collection was for the church coffer by the way.
So we went from house to house, singing carols in our dialects and then topping that of with ‘Merry Christmas’ in English. Satisfied, we would listen to the rustle of money exchanging hands or the clink of coins dropping into our tin.
As the day went darker into twilight, we grew a bit tired so we agreed to go home by 10pm. Most people were asleep by then and didn’t appreciate being woken up by somnolent off-key singers trying to avoid candle wax on their hands.
I was lagging behind, dragging my feet when I suddenly realized that my group was so far ahead, I could only recognise their flickering candle light. It was on a particularly dark spot along the road, too. I ran after them. I was a rather thin 13-year old then so I could run fairly well. I just could not catch up with them, even though they were merely walking, and not very fast at that.
It was then that I heard a sound like ‘swashaaa’, and a gust of cold wind blew on me; literally shoving me. I yelled and ran faster, and of course as fate would have it, I stumbled over a piece of wood and fell, my face just a few inches from a pile of buffalo dung.
Everybody stopped and looked down at me sprawled at their feet. My choir group sniggered and walked on, not really interested to know why I suddenly tripped and fell. According to them I have been walking along with them all the time, and then suddenly I yelled, stumbled and fell. Maybe I fell asleep on my feet and dropped, someone suggested. Very Funny!
Nobody really believed me then, and I don’t think they would now. But this memory would always haunt me especially before Christmas. Haunt may not be really it, but you know what I mean.
Now this event occurred many years ago when I was still a spritely teenager and a very active member of our Catholic Legion of Mary team.
There were about 12 of us juniors in that group, aged between ten and 15, and as such we were quite rambunctious much to the chagrin of our Priest and his Senior Legionnaires. We were often chastised with Hail Marys and Our Fathers for stealing fruits from the church orchard or running round and round the good Padre’s house. He did have a nicely trimmed garden as opposed to our paddy fields.
It so happened that we were also members of the church choir which we took to with a zest that was almost horrifying. Our hallelujahs shook the rafters and our Amens were enthusiastic enough to wake the dead.
Several days before Christmas, we went caroling, all 12 of us, with our leader carrying Christmas cards and an empty biscuit tin to put our collection in. This collection was for the church coffer by the way.
So we went from house to house, singing carols in our dialects and then topping that of with ‘Merry Christmas’ in English. Satisfied, we would listen to the rustle of money exchanging hands or the clink of coins dropping into our tin.
As the day went darker into twilight, we grew a bit tired so we agreed to go home by 10pm. Most people were asleep by then and didn’t appreciate being woken up by somnolent off-key singers trying to avoid candle wax on their hands.
I was lagging behind, dragging my feet when I suddenly realized that my group was so far ahead, I could only recognise their flickering candle light. It was on a particularly dark spot along the road, too. I ran after them. I was a rather thin 13-year old then so I could run fairly well. I just could not catch up with them, even though they were merely walking, and not very fast at that.
It was then that I heard a sound like ‘swashaaa’, and a gust of cold wind blew on me; literally shoving me. I yelled and ran faster, and of course as fate would have it, I stumbled over a piece of wood and fell, my face just a few inches from a pile of buffalo dung.
Everybody stopped and looked down at me sprawled at their feet. My choir group sniggered and walked on, not really interested to know why I suddenly tripped and fell. According to them I have been walking along with them all the time, and then suddenly I yelled, stumbled and fell. Maybe I fell asleep on my feet and dropped, someone suggested. Very Funny!
Nobody really believed me then, and I don’t think they would now. But this memory would always haunt me especially before Christmas. Haunt may not be really it, but you know what I mean.
Written by Grace
(IDryad)
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CHRISTMAS WISDOM TRUE
When I was 23 years of age, I found myself sitting at a bar just a few days before Christmas. What I tell happened in that bar is true, for certainly I am not smart enough to have thought it up.
“Why in the world did the Wise Men bring gold, frankincense and myrrh to that baby Jesus, I mean, isn’t that some ostentatious crap?” An old man who had a little too much, was ranting belligerently? “I understand the gold, but what’s with the perfume stuff? Did they need it in case the kid filled his pants? What’s so wise about that?”
I could tell the other patrons were bothered by his carping so I tried to intervene with an answer. After all, I didn’t want a History major, and Philosophy minor to go completely to waste.
“I know the answer to your question, friend,” I said.
After giving me the once over he said with a smirk, “Okay, then tell me!”
“The Wise Men knew that the Christ child was in grave danger. King Herod was so fearful of the rumor of a Messiah, he sent his men out to kill all the new born babies. So the Wise Men brought those three gifts for one reason alone, to help Joseph, Mary and child, get out of Israel, the sooner, and the better. During this time, all three gifts were popular barter tender. Undoubtedly they used the gold frankincense and myrrh to buy passage on a caravan to flee to Egypt. That meant crossing the harsh Sinai desert on camels. That donkey that carried Mary would have never made it.”
The old man looked at me with a perplexed but amused expression. The bartender added, “He told you!”
The old man smiled and said, “You’re a pretty smart kid, but I bet I know something about those Three Wise Men you don’t, I bet you a round, I know all three of their names?”
“I’m sorry sir,” I said trying to apologize my way out of this now very uncomfortable situation, “besides I don’t have the money to buy a round.”
“When I said I’ll bet you a round, I didn’t mean for you to buy it, I meant you had to drink it. So do you think I know their names, or not?”
Not knowing how to play the game I said, “Sure”, tinge with a sigh of sarcasm.
The old man took a deep breath and said to the bartender, “Set up a ‘Three Wise Men’ for my young friend.”
“Right away,” Bartender answered. As he poured out three shots before me, the old man introduced me to each of the Wise Men. “This is Jack Daniels, this is Jim Beam, and this guy is Johnnie Walker. Now how much wiser can you get?”
“Now drink up kid, cause a deal is a deal, I named them, now you drink them.” As I sipped the tipsy old man wished everyone a Merry Christmas and left.
Once gone the bartender smiled and informed me, “He does this every year just before Christmas. First he disses ‘The Gift of the Magi’, then too the first person who challenges him, he ends up buying them ‘The Gift of the Magi’. I thinks it’s his way of preserving the true meaning of Christmas, by giving and sharing, even with those who don’t quite perceive Christmas in the same way you do.”
Ever since that night, so many years ago. Just before Christmas, I always seek out a bar, to carry on that old man’s legacy, by buying the first person that defends the ‘Gift of the Magi’ with an order of ‘Three Wise Men’.
“Why in the world did the Wise Men bring gold, frankincense and myrrh to that baby Jesus, I mean, isn’t that some ostentatious crap?” An old man who had a little too much, was ranting belligerently? “I understand the gold, but what’s with the perfume stuff? Did they need it in case the kid filled his pants? What’s so wise about that?”
I could tell the other patrons were bothered by his carping so I tried to intervene with an answer. After all, I didn’t want a History major, and Philosophy minor to go completely to waste.
“I know the answer to your question, friend,” I said.
After giving me the once over he said with a smirk, “Okay, then tell me!”
“The Wise Men knew that the Christ child was in grave danger. King Herod was so fearful of the rumor of a Messiah, he sent his men out to kill all the new born babies. So the Wise Men brought those three gifts for one reason alone, to help Joseph, Mary and child, get out of Israel, the sooner, and the better. During this time, all three gifts were popular barter tender. Undoubtedly they used the gold frankincense and myrrh to buy passage on a caravan to flee to Egypt. That meant crossing the harsh Sinai desert on camels. That donkey that carried Mary would have never made it.”
The old man looked at me with a perplexed but amused expression. The bartender added, “He told you!”
The old man smiled and said, “You’re a pretty smart kid, but I bet I know something about those Three Wise Men you don’t, I bet you a round, I know all three of their names?”
“I’m sorry sir,” I said trying to apologize my way out of this now very uncomfortable situation, “besides I don’t have the money to buy a round.”
“When I said I’ll bet you a round, I didn’t mean for you to buy it, I meant you had to drink it. So do you think I know their names, or not?”
Not knowing how to play the game I said, “Sure”, tinge with a sigh of sarcasm.
The old man took a deep breath and said to the bartender, “Set up a ‘Three Wise Men’ for my young friend.”
“Right away,” Bartender answered. As he poured out three shots before me, the old man introduced me to each of the Wise Men. “This is Jack Daniels, this is Jim Beam, and this guy is Johnnie Walker. Now how much wiser can you get?”
“Now drink up kid, cause a deal is a deal, I named them, now you drink them.” As I sipped the tipsy old man wished everyone a Merry Christmas and left.
Once gone the bartender smiled and informed me, “He does this every year just before Christmas. First he disses ‘The Gift of the Magi’, then too the first person who challenges him, he ends up buying them ‘The Gift of the Magi’. I thinks it’s his way of preserving the true meaning of Christmas, by giving and sharing, even with those who don’t quite perceive Christmas in the same way you do.”
Ever since that night, so many years ago. Just before Christmas, I always seek out a bar, to carry on that old man’s legacy, by buying the first person that defends the ‘Gift of the Magi’ with an order of ‘Three Wise Men’.
Written by snugglebuck
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'Twas the Night Before Christmas in a Cheap Hotel
with apologies to C. Moore
’Twas the night before Christmas and I couldn’t sleep—
My per diem demanded this hotel be cheap!
The whore in the next room sure put on a show
With her moaning and humping, entertaining her “beau.”
I turned on the tube just to drown out the sound
and “A Wonderful Life” was all that I found.
So I watched Jimmy Stewart to a soundtrack of lust
While that hooker kept grunting and yelling, nonplussed!
The sounds that she made were unlike anything
That I ever imagined that coitus could bring—
I beard banging and singing and moaning galore
I was duly impressed by that tart’s répertoire!
Soon the movie was over, but not so her noise
From deep down in her lungs, her faux sexual joys!
She had mastered the art of performance in bed
And then silence! I assumed she was giving him head…
Sure enough, soon the noise returned, louder and lewd
But, this time, she wasn’t the one getting screwed!
I heard whipping, and thrashing, and masculine weeps
She was more than a whore, and now playing for keeps!
Her voice was now calmer, aggressive, and strong—
She wasn’t a hooker, I’d got it all wrong!
She, a Pro-Dominatrix, then tortured her “john”
I listened, transfixed, it was quite a turn-on!
Ignoring his pleas, she went straight to her work
By bruising his manhood with jerk after jerk.
Then, shoving her strap-on deep inside his ass
She made him her bitch as his prostate got thrashed!
I sprang to my feet, pressed my ear to the wall
He was crying! I think she was busting his balls!
I gasped as she savagely tortured his sex
And I shouted the question, “Do you accept checks?”
Written by ReggiePoet
(Reggie)
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Promise in the Storm
(the night before Christmas)
While quarried from a century of stone,
The cabin sits low with its mortared brick,
To brace against the north wind ice-bound flow.
From days gone past in nature’s dark unknown.
The memory of man, the glacier fields
Of deepest long ago where they had roamed.
To settle the scarred land, man and his mate,
Had made for themselves a wilderness home
Away from his village far to the south.
A week by sled from the place of their birth,
While eager to challenge as was a rite,
The god-smack beauty of a sleeping earth.
The howl of wolves is music,
The sleet and rain is their song.
The midnight sun that guides him
As Huskies race the ladened sled from here,
A town across the inlet, where his chums
Are gathered there to ring In Christmas cheer.
They stand outside and talk about the lights
That hang on meager poles between the lines,
The few are sober can’t afford to fight.
And so the lights of red and blue and green
That decorate the one Main Street in town,
Will shine till New Year’s Eve then taken down.
The men disperse to go back in the bar,
It starts to snow and now they’ll miss their friend.
They won’t be going home, it’s way too far.
The parka hood pulled tight, the goggles clog,
Begins to flurry ice, wild from the gusts,
He thinks of her through sounds of barking dogs.
She tends to him, the stock, their frontier home,
Where soon the promise of their firstborn son,
Who hasn't introduced himself, their own.
She smiles; the image of her man: he’s where
He’s like a bear, he strides in from a storm,
Snow in his beard and windblown ginger hair.
Eternal nights and northern lights demur
To bless their cabin nest while she’s asleep,
Her nakedness wrapped warm in softest fur.
The frigid wind bemoans out in the sleet.
A fire glows and flickers from the hearth,
Their little one is safe, tucked in her dream.
A full moon keeping watch while overhead,
Will flood the frozen landscape with its light.
While miles away he’s restless for her bed.
Her ginger man forgets the cold and stir,
To call and urge his Huskies through the night
And head true north to spend Christmas with her.
Preview piece: photo by Pete Wongkongkathep
Written by Jade-Pandora
(jade tiger)
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When the Swans Fly Away
“When the swans fly away, they will take my youth with them,” came the words, circling in my soul, that last summer. I believed them to be true, when I slid into the waves along with the rest of Company E. I was not yet twenty-two, as we sloshed our way, tide-driven, onto Omaha Beach, and the officers started falling around me, immediate casualties of the Germans. I should have shot back, but it was of no use; we could not see where they were, the Germans, so I became mesmerized at the faces of the soldiers floating in the sea around me. How innocent, they looked—no hint of knowing that the bullets came, until they had already pierced their flesh, opening portals for their souls to exit.
Had the waters not been stained red with blood, my comrades might have looked as if they were casually floating, relaxed, on an intentional sea-side holiday. But they were not, and neither was I, and the words of the swans came once again in my head. I imagined the migration that would soon take flight, thousands of white swans, bidding their last adieu to summer homes, in exchange for escape to climates less-harsh, than what was to come at the turn of the leaves.
Odd, that our own migration had taken us into the harshest circumstance, and not to some happier place. It was then that I took my own bullet. Fear-gripped and immersed in thoughts of winged creatures, flying away at will, and by some ingrained purpose, I no longer felt the bodies around me as I became one of them. A split second of lost focus, will do that, and I was destined to be pulled out with the tides, into deeper waters, with the rest of the lost.
I am part if it all now, the Earth and its sands and oceans, and I am here every day. Sometimes when the tides are right, on Christmas Eve, I come ashore and watch as they gather each year and let go the wreaths in memory of us. I grab one, and slowly take it on the currents with me, my only gift, for I, like so many others, did not return for the Holidays in 1944. I could have done so much more, if it were not for the swans.
“When the swans fly away, they will take my youth with them,” came the words, circling in my soul, that last summer. I believed them to be true, when I slid into the waves along with the rest of Company E. I was not yet twenty-two, as we sloshed our way, tide-driven, onto Omaha Beach, and the officers started falling around me, immediate casualties of the Germans. I should have shot back, but it was of no use; we could not see where they were, the Germans, so I became mesmerized at the faces of the soldiers floating in the sea around me. How innocent, they looked—no hint of knowing that the bullets came, until they had already pierced their flesh, opening portals for their souls to exit.
Had the waters not been stained red with blood, my comrades might have looked as if they were casually floating, relaxed, on an intentional sea-side holiday. But they were not, and neither was I, and the words of the swans came once again in my head. I imagined the migration that would soon take flight, thousands of white swans, bidding their last adieu to summer homes, in exchange for escape to climates less-harsh, than what was to come at the turn of the leaves.
Odd, that our own migration had taken us into the harshest circumstance, and not to some happier place. It was then that I took my own bullet. Fear-gripped and immersed in thoughts of winged creatures, flying away at will, and by some ingrained purpose, I no longer felt the bodies around me as I became one of them. A split second of lost focus, will do that, and I was destined to be pulled out with the tides, into deeper waters, with the rest of the lost.
I am part if it all now, the Earth and its sands and oceans, and I am here every day. Sometimes when the tides are right, on Christmas Eve, I come ashore and watch as they gather each year and let go the wreaths in memory of us. I grab one, and slowly take it on the currents with me, my only gift, for I, like so many others, did not return for the Holidays in 1944. I could have done so much more, if it were not for the swans.
Designated Driver
It was the night before Christmas and all through the house,
All the kiddies were sleeping, expect for me and my spouse.
We were wrapping up presents when we heard a noise,
She said “what was that? Go check up on the boys”.
I checked their bedroom and they were asleep in their beds,
Dreaming of video games and other things in their heads,
“They’re asleep” I told her, “I don’t know what that could’ve been”
“But let’s hurry up cuz I want some” I told her with a grin.
Just then we heard a loud crash right outside the backyard,
It was a large man knocked out and he had fallen hard.
I got my bat ready to beat the hell out of this punk,
But it was Santa passed out and I could smell he was drunk.
Could this really be Santa? Then we got the proof,
We saw his sleigh and reindeer waiting on top of our roof,
“What are you doing here?” I asked jolly old Saint Nick,
But he slurred his words, it looked like he was sick.
We helped him to get up and he was heavy like log,
“I come bearing gifts” he said “Here, have some eggnog.”
“Santa” I said “It looks like your drink was heavily spiked,”
“He’ll need help” my wife said, then I became totally psyched.
“Yes my dear boy” he said, “I’ll need help to deliver these toys,
And as a thank you, here are some gifts for you and your boys…
Quickly, get on the sleigh and know this job is an overnighter!”
I’ll never forget the year I was Santa’s designated driver.
It was the night before Christmas and all through the house,
All the kiddies were sleeping, expect for me and my spouse.
We were wrapping up presents when we heard a noise,
She said “what was that? Go check up on the boys”.
I checked their bedroom and they were asleep in their beds,
Dreaming of video games and other things in their heads,
“They’re asleep” I told her, “I don’t know what that could’ve been”
“But let’s hurry up cuz I want some” I told her with a grin.
Just then we heard a loud crash right outside the backyard,
It was a large man knocked out and he had fallen hard.
I got my bat ready to beat the hell out of this punk,
But it was Santa passed out and I could smell he was drunk.
Could this really be Santa? Then we got the proof,
We saw his sleigh and reindeer waiting on top of our roof,
“What are you doing here?” I asked jolly old Saint Nick,
But he slurred his words, it looked like he was sick.
We helped him to get up and he was heavy like log,
“I come bearing gifts” he said “Here, have some eggnog.”
“Santa” I said “It looks like your drink was heavily spiked,”
“He’ll need help” my wife said, then I became totally psyched.
“Yes my dear boy” he said, “I’ll need help to deliver these toys,
And as a thank you, here are some gifts for you and your boys…
Quickly, get on the sleigh and know this job is an overnighter!”
I’ll never forget the year I was Santa’s designated driver.
Tis' The Hour of Rebirth (Christmas Eve)
Midnight,
An hour for evil to be smite.
The fallen angel said: let there be night!
And God said: let there be light!
Tis’ the hour of His birth,
And the time of our rebirth.
Oh, believers of the heavens,
Tis’ the hour of your redemptions!
To within our souls,
God has sloped his hands over Heaven’s grassy knolls
To cleanse the ink of sin
That too many of our free-wills are stained within.
On the eve of His birth
And the time of our prayer for rebirth,
All the peoples of the Faith dance in spirit,
So, tis’ the night our Lord shall save it!
Oh, sinners of the of the earth themselves
Best pray for their holy escape,
Redeem yourselves! Release yourselves
from Lucifer’s black cape!
The light of our Faith skewers any darkness with a holy sword,
For the newborn babe of this hour of our Lord.
As brilliant, and mighty as he will one day stoutly stand;
Leading us of the true Faith through every land!
Within a humble manger,
Over a now sanctified bed of hay,
Far from sinful danger,
The King of Kings lay.
Our Faith and Pride follow!
For those filled with sorrow.
Open your arms for the redeemer!
For a true child of God finds this not as a dreamer!
Breaking every bind between Faith and sin,
The Lord has freed the believers in the world they abode in.
We now on this night see a sinner; a slave,
But by the grace of holy-love, we now see a brother that unto us fate gave.
And for this, we are forever grateful to Him
And we shall on Christmas Eve sing his hymn.
From His birth, to His suffering, to His rebirth.
So, now tis’ the hour of His birth.
Believers die to rise,
Sinners die to have a fall so grim.
In death we rise.
In death we rise with Him!
An hour for evil to be smite.
The fallen angel said: let there be night!
And God said: let there be light!
Tis’ the hour of His birth,
And the time of our rebirth.
Oh, believers of the heavens,
Tis’ the hour of your redemptions!
To within our souls,
God has sloped his hands over Heaven’s grassy knolls
To cleanse the ink of sin
That too many of our free-wills are stained within.
On the eve of His birth
And the time of our prayer for rebirth,
All the peoples of the Faith dance in spirit,
So, tis’ the night our Lord shall save it!
Oh, sinners of the of the earth themselves
Best pray for their holy escape,
Redeem yourselves! Release yourselves
from Lucifer’s black cape!
The light of our Faith skewers any darkness with a holy sword,
For the newborn babe of this hour of our Lord.
As brilliant, and mighty as he will one day stoutly stand;
Leading us of the true Faith through every land!
Within a humble manger,
Over a now sanctified bed of hay,
Far from sinful danger,
The King of Kings lay.
Our Faith and Pride follow!
For those filled with sorrow.
Open your arms for the redeemer!
For a true child of God finds this not as a dreamer!
Breaking every bind between Faith and sin,
The Lord has freed the believers in the world they abode in.
We now on this night see a sinner; a slave,
But by the grace of holy-love, we now see a brother that unto us fate gave.
And for this, we are forever grateful to Him
And we shall on Christmas Eve sing his hymn.
From His birth, to His suffering, to His rebirth.
So, now tis’ the hour of His birth.
Believers die to rise,
Sinners die to have a fall so grim.
In death we rise.
In death we rise with Him!
Written by gothicsurrealism
(Daniel Long)
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So here it is Next Year!
How time flies, so I hear.
Let’s toast a cuppa cheer,
We members, far & near
By jet, by car and boat.
The poems that we wrote,
And prayers we bow’d & spoke,
I thank you for the vote!
Excuse my little rhyme,
We’ve none of us the time.
Festivities await,
And all the food we ate.
Come let me fill your plate,
We’re bound to be up late!
~Jadey
🎉🎊🎈
🥘🥗🍲
🍜🍧🥧
🍻🍸🍹🥂🍾
It is so exciting to read your stories. All Christmas events were canceled in our city because of Covid-19. However, my friends and I could not organize a party. We decided to make a carnival party in nightmare style. Of course, everything was happening at night. We have used a lot of fake blood and meat to decorate the location. Near the access was a vast LED screen for outdoor events from https://www.ontourevents.co.uk/outdoor-led-screen-hirewhere were written ominous congratulations and appeared screamers. We have never seen something similar. I am sure that next year will be even more fucking awesome than this time.
