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Michael McLaverty

Left alone John breathed freely, and for some reason whenever he crossed the floor he did so on his tiptoes. He lifted the red cloak that was trimmed in fur, held it in his outstretched arms to admire it, and squeezed the life out of a moth that was struggling in one of the folds. Chips of tinsel glinted on the shoulders of the cloak and he was ready to flick them off when he decided it was more Christmassy-looking to let them remain on. He pulled on the cloak, crossed on tiptoes to a looking-glass on the wall and winked and grimaced at himself, sometimes putting up the collar of the cloak to enjoy the warm touch of fur on the back of his neck. He attached the beard and the whiskers, spitting out one or two hairs that had strayed into his mouth.
Michael McLaverty, "Father Christmas"

March 18, 2017 in Books | Permalink

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