Mrs. Claus-Kringle, her face a rose, petals curled at the edge in concern. “Dear, dear Santa, dear, dear you. Do not work yourself into a tizzy, or to an early grave.” Her rosy eyes weep pinkish tears as Santa works on and on into the night. His countenance is counting ants as they scutter and scatter his cookie crumb beard. But he must not be distracted, not by nature, not by nurture. Partner and pismire go unheeded.

It is already Christmas Eve, and the reindeer, reined in by starlight and snowflake are fueled and consumed by flight desire. Comet craves the crest of the horizon, while Dasher dances in anticipation of weightlessness, worrying the snowfall. Blitzen worries about another year beginning late. His antlers are ants scurrying about his skull electrically, like holiday lights poisoned into life.

Of course, Santa’s arms do not capitulate and all goes off without a hitch. Mrs. Kringle-Claus, her face now a dandelion, floats tufts of dandelion fur to trim her hubby’s coat. Her pride in his work is tempered only by his disinterest in it. Santa’s magic has no magic, his calling transmogrified to job after centuries of the yearly grind. His beard is thistles and his heart is a bus full of dinosaur bones.

Finally, he takes to his sleigh and yells, “Onward ho ho ho!” The reins of the sleigh ablaze with a trillion billion lightning bolts crackle and thoom through the snowy snowstorm. The reindeer lift and coagulate, become jellydeer to more fluidly traipse the space-time continuum. Then, like a collapsed giraffe, time and space freeze, melt, ooze and bleed slowly away, as Santa sallies further, Father Christmas chrysalised by paused chronology. Sluicing down chimneys and crayfishing along carpets, depositing toys and goodies in his wake. And just like that, Christmas Eve is Christmas Day, in the blink of a Slinky. And Santa slumbers, whilst Mrs. Krins-Claugley, her head a kudzu vine, wraps herself in the warmth of Santa’s snooze.

Snowman thought a moment, then said, “Well, I do love a thick and sweet chocolate malted.

And I’m oh so happy skipping merrily through a snowy meadow.

And nothing compares to a big hug from a dear friend.

But my greatest wish is to be a volunteer firefighter!” he exclaimed. “To battle the crimson flame! Douse the burning structures and valiantly brave the back drafts and save the orphaned grandmothers and their fluffy, fluffy kittens from the crumbly, crumbly homes!”

“Yes, but as a snowman, would you not melt in the fire?” the man with a beard asked. But the snowman was sniffing the air with his carrot for a nose.

“Jingle jangle, I believe I smell smoke!” he said, dashing through the snow. And sure enough, he came across a burning dog house.

“Never fear, cowering pups, I shall save you!” the snowman said. He was, however, melting in the heat of the flames.

“Snowman, be careful!” the man with a beard shouted. But it was too late. The snowman had melted into his old top hat, coal eyes and carrot nose bobbing in the pool of snowman that once was.

“Quick! Toss me at the fire!” the pool of snowman that once was said. The man with a beard did just that, and immediately the flames were extinguished.

“Oh, thank you, you saved my home,” Dr. Basset Hound said tearfully.