A Child’s Christmas in Wales

by Dylan Thomas, Ellen Raskin (Illustrator)

Originally emerging from a piece written for radio, the poem was recorded by Thomas in 1952. The story is an anecdotal retelling of a Christmas from the view of a young child and is a romanticised version of Christmases past, portraying a nostalgic and simpler time. It is one of Thomas' most popular works.

Genres: Christmas, Poetry, Classics, Fiction, Short Stories, Childrens, Holiday

48 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1952

About the author

Dylan Marlais Thomas (1914-1953) was a Welsh poet who wrote in English. Many regard him as one of the 20th century's most influential poets.

In addition to poetry, Thomas wrote short stories and scripts for film and radio, with the latter frequently performed by Thomas himself. His public readings, particularly in America, won him great acclaim; his booming, at times, ostentatious voice, with a subtle Welsh lilt, became almost as famous as his works. His best-known work includes the "play for voices" Under Milk Wood and the celebrated villanelle for his dying father, "Do not go gentle into that good night." Appreciative critics have also noted the superb craftsmanship and compression of poems such as "In my craft or sullen art" and the rhapsodic lyricism of Fern Hill.

Reviews

[Maureen · Rating 4 out of 5]

“All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street”.

This is Dylan Thomas’s delightful account of his childhood Christmas’s in Wales. Simply enchanting!

[Tadiana ✩Night Owl☽ · Rating 5 out of 5]

My artistic, flighty mother, who's in her 70's, flits in and out of my life, leaving quirky gifts behind. Sometimes they go straight to Goodwill (used clothing, cheap knickknacks); sometimes they're useful (a type of mop she particularly loves); sometimes they're delightful (my grandmother's sterling silver set, books that have moved her, beautiful impressionistic landscapes that she paints in oils or watercolor).



This illustrated book version of Dylan Thomas's reminiscing about his boyhood Christmases was one of my mother's more recent gifts; she dropped it on me one day when she was visiting, with very little explanation. But it's nostalgic and old-timey and European-flavored, which are sure-fire appeals to her sensibilities (and often mine). It also has Thomas's lovely, poetic writing:

Years and years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the colour of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlours . . .

Dylan Thomas was a Welsh poet who lived a short, intense life (he died of his excesses when he was only 39). He disliked being regarded as a "Welsh" writer and had no use for Welsh nationalism. And yet he came up with this beautiful, lyrical tribute to his childhood Christmases in the coastal town of Swansea, Wales, in the early 1900's, "before the motor-car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and snowed."

There's no real structure to this short book; it's more a grab bag of random childhood Christmastime stories, filled with boys' mischief, Useful Presents ("mittens made for giant sloths; ... pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles's pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why") and Useless Presents (the best! "a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any color I please, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknel, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh" ... I wish I knew what half of those things are), and relatives who indulge in a little too much parsnip wine.

Short, affectionate and poetic, this is a sweet tribute to bygone days and those Christmas memories that linger through the years.

Bumping up to 5 stars on reread.

Free online here at Gutenberg Australia: http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks07/0701...
Or if you'd like to listen to Dylan Thomas reading his own story, here's a recording: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Hoxy...

[Dave Schaafsma · Rating 5 out of 5]

“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

This is a lovely picture book illustrated by Chris Raschka of the familiar (but now forgotten by many?) tale written by Welsh poet Dylan Thomas ("Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night") that is always good to read around the holidays. Not at all limited to a kid story, either. Nostalgia. Wonderful, wonderful language and joyful telling.

“It snowed last year too: I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”

The watercolor art is not as soft and inviting as one might expect from such a nostalgic project; it's more an abstract expressionistic depiction of the world of Thomas's tale, point off for that, but it's colorful and joyful, nevertheless. Merry Christmas, to all those of you that celebrate that. Here's some of his lovely language to celebrate, either way:

“Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.”

If you haven't heard it for some time, or never have, here is a recording of Thomas himself reading it in February 1952! It is indeed good to have his mellifluous Welsh voice reading his own gorgeous words as you read them and look at the illustrations! But if you can't get the book on short notice, just listen to it here as I just did! Yes, this is actually the voice of the great poet Dylan Thomas, back from the dead!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hv4-s...

[Ines · Rating 4 out of 5]

I completely forgot to review this little book, my husband has read it out loud for the whole family during Christmas Eve, The poor one has been interrupted hundreds of times because the English used by Thomas was not very easy to understand for us, many words now in disuse., so he had to translate so much that (was better to read it in italian one first!!😖)
The story is very tender and particular, an insight of Thomas' childhood that recalls the most significant images of his past Christmases .
My youngest children were impressed by Edward’s bold illustrations, short reading before Christmas Mass.



Mi sono completamente dimenticata di recensire questo piccolo libricino, mio marito lo ha letto ad alta voce per tutta la famiglia durante la Vigilia di Natale, il poverino è stato interrotto centinaia di volte perchè l'inglese utilizzato da Thomas non è di facilissima comprensione, molte parole ormai in disuso.
La storia è tenerissima e particolare, uno spaccato dell' infanzia di Thomas che ricorda le immagini piu' significative dei Natali del suo passato.
I mie figli piu' piccoli sono rimasti colpiti dalle illustrazioni di Edward Ardizzone, mini lettura prima della Messa di Natale.

[Angela M · Rating 5 out of 5]

Beautiful.

[Heidi (reading to avoid current events) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Gorgeous prose— despite some of the longest sentences ever.

A lovely read from start to finish— full of imagery and luscious metaphors and similes.

[Tina · Rating 5 out of 5]

My understanding is this is a British Christmas classic. I've been reading it to my children for several years now at Christmas time. It's such a delightful story and so beautifully told. If you want to re-live the nostalgic Christmas past I highly recommend you read this short story.

[Darla · Rating 5 out of 5]

Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steadily falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

I cannot believe it has taken me so long to take time to savor this treasure. The narrator is telling of his childhood Christmases to a captive audience of children. From the snowballs thrown at cats and calling firemen on Christmas Eve to the candy cigarettes and dog whistles in his stocking, and the family dinner. Through it all, the snow is mythical and ever present. With elaborate prose, whimsical illustrations by Trina Schart Hyman, and a wistful tone, this is one to read year after year.

[Julie G · Rating 5 out of 5]

I realize, now, that Dylan Thomas has been trying to capture my attention for 41 years. Sorry it took so long. I'm here now. Let's proceed.

[Lesle · Rating 5 out of 5]

You remember how time changes our memories? Remembering the good was outstanding or the bad was a horror show when we were growing up with our family. Let alone the forever long car trip to get to Grandma's!

This starts out the same way but more in a poetic memory...
One Christmas was so much like another...I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

The rest is just magic...engaging in playful snowball fights, useful and useless Christmas gift giving. OH and the bit with the sweet candy cigarettes brought back many laughs and fun pretending. The Uncle that is a bit too quirky and trying while flashing the new cigar. The Aunt sitting demurely on the edge of her chair as she not needed in the kitchen but, she was hoping they would invite her in to where the turkey and Christmas pudding were. Someone had a bit too much port, Auntie!

All these things plus more are wrapped in this comfort read. A beloved tale. The joy of family at Christmas time.

[Jason Koivu · Rating 5 out of 5]

I need more Dylan Thomas in my life!

I was unaware of this fact until today, having never read his stuff before aside from "Do not go gentle into that good night" some 30 or so years ago. I don't usually go in for poetry, but I loved his cadence and imagery. Beautiful stuff!

"A Child's Christmas in Wales" is very much like a more lyrical version of Jean Shepherd's "A Christmas Story". I put that in quotes, not italics, because I've only ever seen the movie version, never read it. With that in mind, to me, Thomas' recollections on Christmas seem to contain the same kind of child-like wonder and frivolity. There is ironic humor in mildly unpleasant happenings. I loved it!

"A Child's Christmas in Wales" the poem-story heads up A Child's Christmas in Wales the collection, which also includes "Do not go gentle into that good night", among others. All of which are great. This proved an excellent Christmas-read choice!

[Alwynne · Rating 5 out of 5]

”All the Christmases roll down towards the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea and out comes Mrs Prothero and her firemen.”

Small, domestic dramas, eccentric relatives descending and dipping into the booze, boys chasing cats and singing carols, snowballs and presents, rhinos leaving footprints in deep snow: the mythic and the half-remembered combine with fantasies of Christmas past in Dylan Thomas’s marvellous, seasonal classic. It’s a glorious piece, sonorous and lyrical but firmly rooted in the realities of the Welsh communities of Thomas’s childhood.

There are numerous versions online, although I read this in a miniscule hardback version complete with Edward Ardizzone’s evocative illustrations.

Some versions I’ve come across that people may like are:

The full text:
https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-chi...

Dylan Thomas reading in New York:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hv4-s...

A dramatized version:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9BTSQ...

[Magrat Ajostiernos · Rating 4 out of 5]

Un cuento navideño muy breve, de esos que me gustan a mi, plagados de recuerdos, nostalgia y mucha nieve.
Es tan cortito que sabe a poco pero al mismo tiempo creo que es la historia perfecta para releer y descubrir cada vez algo nuevo ♥︎

[Melki · Rating 5 out of 5]

All the Christmases roll toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find.

How did I, a huge fan of Christmas and celebrations in general, manage to ignore this book for so long?

Not a clue - but it was THIS version with illustrations by the marvelous Chris Raschka



that finally convinced me to dig in.

This is a happy tale that is fun-filled and warm, despite, or maybe because of, the dark and constantly snow-spewing skies.

Throwing snowballs at cats and hilariously tipsy relatives are just a few of the memorable moments that make Thomas's Christmas special.

The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush.

This little treasure shall be read every year hereafter.

Long live Christmas!

[Carol, She's so Novel ꧁꧂ · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read this over at https://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems... and also treated myself to a listen over on You Tube of Thomas reading this himself. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Hoxy... I normally hate being read to but it is impossible to hate this beautifully vibrating voice breathing even more life into this work.

I've never read nostalgia so well realised & I loved the gentle humour.

Here is a quote dear to a Goodreader's heart.

And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?”

Wishing all my Goodreads friends A Very Merry Christmas and a Literary 2018!

[Riku Sayuj · Rating 5 out of 5]

I picked this as an accessible introduction to Dylan's work. A delicate prose poem that proceeds liltingly until the child and the adult versions collides head on, subtly, magnificently bringing about the conclusion.

[Jessaka · Rating 5 out of 5]

“One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

While this story by Dylan’s is wonderful when read, you will find it more special when listening to it being read by Dylan Thomas, but my own audio version claims it was narrated by Michael Clarke Lawrence. Why do they sound like the same person? No matter, the Welsh brogue is just wonderful, and to me it was more Christmassy, but perhaps that was just because it is new to me.

Were all Thomas' Christmas’ alike? I doubt it, but perhaps this story is of those Christmases he recalls, all wrapted up into one.

The scene with the cats was fun:

“It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats...”

But then the boys heard a scream coming from within the house. “Fire!” They gathered up all of their snowballs and ran into the smoke filled house and threw all of their snowballs into the smoke. Then they ran outside and called the fire brigade. At least the cats were spared, but the house was not. What a mess!

Then there was much more to follow, and I loved this paragraph about times past:

”Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves…”

Ah, to be in Wales back then. And Thomas’ friend asked, Did they have postmen who had “wind-cherried noses” and “frozen feet that crunced through the snow up to the door.” I suppose they had. And I wish we still had; instead they drive a truck and put mail into our mailbox by the street, that is, unless we have a package coming. I love those days because you not only get a package but you get to know the mail person better.

And did they have presents? And Thomas meanders along, not answering the questions, until he finally does, and the gifts are various: large mittens made for giant sloths, mufflers, and scarves, and the list grows in its poetic way, and you can envision these delights in your own mind’s eye. These were the useful gifts. The others were much more fun to receive. Every child knows this to be true. I would think that the fun useful gifts would be bunny suit pajamas, the kind with bunny feet and a cap over your head with ears sewn in.

And I finally remember a Christmas when my little brother Jerry was only two years old. A friend of ours that we called our uncle, brought Jerry a drum set. This uncle had spent the night on the couch and woke up with a hangover. In the moriing while he was still sleeping, Jerry opened that gift and began banging the drum, marching through the living room, down the hallway, turning into the den, then through the den into the kitchen and back through the living room. Over and over again. Our pretend uncle, Uncle Paul as I recall, was asleep no more. His head was pounding much like the drum.

Ah, but these gifts that Dylan received sounded wonderful: “Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh.” And then he names the toys.

And now I will leave you with a recipe, and then I will go listen to this story once more, as it is truly a delightful one, must like A Chrismas Memory by Truman Capote, but with no Miss Sook.

MOCHA TOFFEE BARS

1/4 c. butter
1 (6 oz.) pkg. semi-sweet chocolate chips
2 c. quick oats
3/4 c. brown sugar, packed
1/2 t. salt
1 1/2 t. vanilla
1/4 c. light corn syrup


In a saucepan over low heat, melt butter and chocolate. In a bowl, combine oats, brown sugar, salt, vanilla, and corn syrup. Mix with butter/chocolate mixture. Pack into well buttered foil lined 9x13 inch baking pan. Bake at 375 degrees for 15 to 18 minutes. Cool. Loosen edges, turn pan over and strike it firmly against the counter top so it drops out of the pan. Frost. Break into bars.

CHOCOATE COFFEE FROSTING

1 sq. baking chocolate, melted
1 T. hot strong coffee
1/3 c. finely copped walnuts, for top
1 c. powdered sugar

Frost bars and sprinkle with walnuts.

Comment: My first husband made this for me when we were dating. I can still remember his bringing them to me when I lived with Jill Seaman in Vacaville, CA in the early 1960s. Yum!!! And perhaps what made them so good was that the bars were baked too long. I am a sucker for burnt chocolate chip cookies, burnt sugery old fashioned fudge as well. Burnt chocolate is just so good.

[Julie · Rating 5 out of 5]

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged, fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, ...

And so begins the heart-song of my Christmas holidays.

Along with a recording by Dylan Thomas (1952) reading it, this little story defines Christmas for me, in an unnameable way. I become six again ... or maybe twelve ... or both at once, as I listen to the magic of his words. It is a yearly tradition that I indulge in; and indeed listen to, and re-read a few times over the Christmas season, for the lovely sing-song cadence of his words, written and spoken.

'Tis wizardry that he employs, for I am utterly bewitched, each and every time.

[Michael -- Justice for Renee & Alex · Rating 4 out of 5]

Hearing Dylan Thomas's recitation brought back memories of when our eighth-grade teachers made us perform this. It was good then and ages well.

[ꕥ Ange_Lives_To_Read ꕥ · Rating 5 out of 5]

Naughty or Nice Christmas 2025 - Nice!

I have never read anything by Dylan Thomas before so I’m not sure what his usual style is, but this was a charming series of vignettes about Christmases long past related in the most absurd, over-the-top language, I assume meant to convey how nostalgia burnishes and enhances our fondest memories. Regardless of the hyperbole, this child had some magical Christmases in Wales, filled with snow, candy, toys, family, and adventure. My favorite character was Auntie Hannah who, after hitting every alcoholic beverage since it was “only once a year,” would end up quite tipsy and singing loudly in the back yard. 😄

[Debbie · Rating 4 out of 5]

4 dreamy stars

This poetic short story is about—guess what—a child’s Christmas in Wales. Thomas talks a lot about snow, he talks about presents, he talks about his and his friends’ shenanigans. The mood he sets is seductive: You’re in Wales. You’re in snow. You’re cold. You’re happy (kids love snow and Christmas). The setting is so vivid. And the language is to die for.

But truth be told, classics aren’t my thing. Poetry isn’t my thing. And most certainly, Christmas isn’t my thing. So why in hell would I read this story?

Here’s why:

-A bossy friend kept pushing pushing pushing. Hm, I said, I don’t really want to spend the money. Undeterred, she sent me the story in email. Damn! I had no excuse not to read it! It was sitting right there, staring me in the face.

-My friend also insisted I read it all in one sitting, so yahoo, this meant it was short. I could squeeze it in, plus if I didn’t like it, the pain would be short-lived. Short is always a plus, except when it refers to height (uttered by a true shorty).

-My friend reads it aloud every year at Christmas. Hm. I’m on a read-aloud kick; it’s one way I entertain my 10-year-old charges. (It’s also a good way to shut the kids up, I discovered.) Never mind that this time I’d be reading aloud to myself. Why not? I like hearing the sound of my own voice, lol.

-Dylan Thomas was cool. I remember this from lit classes. The fact that he died from booze at a young age only makes him more intriguing.

So I dove in. And as instructed, I read it in one sitting; it took about 20 minutes. (Yes, I did read it aloud; jury’s out on whether my cat Bobo enjoyed it.) Some paragraphs are so exquisite I read them a few times. I wish I had a great memory and could recite them, in fact; it would be fun and satisfying to be able to carry them around in my head.

The story was like one long prose-poem; it was all dreamy and soothing and nostalgic and masterfully told. It was also incredibly funny in spots. There is no doubt that Thomas is a genius. My only problem was that some of the imagery didn’t work for me. This happens to me with a lot of poetry, and it’s very frustrating. Funny, I loved the tone, the cadence, the sound of the words together, but they didn’t always make sense to me; I just couldn’t visualize the images. Because of this, my reading experience was just 3 stars. Some paragraphs wowed me, though, and I just love reading them over and over, so I’m giving the story 4 stars.

Oh oh oh, before I forget. After I read this story, I listened to it in a clip. It was Thomas himself, reading the story on the radio. His voice is amazing; it sounds like music!! I highly recommend tuning in to this one! Here’s the clip:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Hoxy...

And here’s the text version:

https://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems...

Bottom line: I stumbled now and then, which made me keep my pogo stick in the shed. But I’m so glad I read this story. I decided that the kids I read to wouldn’t enjoy it—it’s too old-fashioned, and too heavy on the sometimes indecipherable images.

But how about it? I read a classic, poetic Christmas story and liked it!!

[Cheri · Rating 5 out of 5]

”One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snow for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.”

And so begins A Child’s Christmas in Wales.

An oh-so-lovely, Christmas tale, written by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, and perfect for those who appreciate beautiful writing.

”We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows – eternal, ever since Wednesday – …..”

”…our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house…”

[Kathleen · Rating 5 out of 5]

“Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors …”

Why oh, why did it take me so long to finally read this? I always knew I would love it.

It carries nostalgia for childhood that any of us can muster, even if our Christmases were never like this. (But the family members Thomas paints in such detail here are so familiar--made me think somehow he snuck a peek into our Christmas window when I was young.)

For a shot of Christmas magic, look no further than this one. I read along with a charming, theatrical reading online here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNaPA...

[Loretta · Rating 4 out of 5]

A simple story of a young boy's youth. Nostalgic, humorous and a delight!

Many thanks to my Goodread friend Manny for letting me know that I could listen to the story on YouTube, read by none other than Dylan Thomas himself!

[Carol · Rating 4 out of 5]

Simply Sweet Memories.....

A CHILD'S CHRISTMAS IN WALES = snow~snow~snow....Lots of snow filled memories of family, friends and neighbors....a creepy caroling outing....and mischief by the sea as remembered by a youngster. "Can the fishes see it snowing?"

So enjoy the classics. This work by Dylan Thomas published in 1952.

[Hilary · Rating 4 out of 5]

I've meant to read this for a long time. The long wait did not lead to disappointment. A wonderfully descriptive short story about family visiting, meals cooked and emotions felt on Christmas day. Ardizzone's illustrations made this lovely account wonderful.

[Tatevik · Rating 4 out of 5]

Christmassy mood officially turned on. I love finding books I've never even heard about and saw. And this was one of them.

[karen · Rating 4 out of 5]

WELCOME TO DECEMBER PROJECT!

this explanation/intro will be posted before each day’s short story. scroll down to get to the story-review.

this is the SEVENTH year of me doing a short story advent calendar as my december project. for those of you new to me or this endeavor, here’s the skinny: every day in december, i will be reading a short story that is 1) available free somewhere on internet, and 2) listed on goodreads as its own discrete entity. there will be links provided for those of you who like to read (or listen to) short stories for free, and also for those of you who have wildly overestimated how many books you can read in a year and are freaking out about not meeting your annual reading-challenge goals. i have been gathering links all year when tasty little tales have popped into my feed, but i will also accept additional suggestions, as long as they meet my aforementioned 1), 2) standards.

GR has deleted the pages for several of the stories i've read in previous years without warning, leaving me with a bunch of missing reviews and broken links, which makes me feel shitty. i have tried to restore the ones i could, but my to-do list is already a ball of nightmares, so that's still a work-in-progress. however, because i don't have a lot of time to waste, and because my brain has felt scraped clean ever since my bout with covid, i'm not going to bother writing much in the way of reviews for these, in case GR decides to scrap 'em again.

i am doing my best.
merry merry.

DECEMBER 24

merry christmas eve-afternoon, unintentionally the perfect time to (finally) read this christmas classic, whose third paragraph occurs on a just-like-today, and involves unspeakable crimes against cats. or the intent thereof:

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

cats are too smart to get snowballed. unlike the heroine of Snowballin': I Fucked Frosty, a veryfine book i wrote once upon a time.

read it for yourself here:

http://www.classicshorts.com/stories/...

2022:

DECEMBER 1: PORGEE'S BOAR - JONATHAN CARROLL
DECEMBER 2: SKELETON SONG - SEANAN MCGUIRE
DECEMBER 3: JUDGE DEE AND THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING MANUSCRIPT - LAVIE TIDHAR
DECEMBER 4: QUANDARY AMINU VS THE BUTTERFLY MAN - RICH LARSON
DECEMBER 5: IN MERCY, RAIN - SEANAN MCGUIRE
DECEMBER 6: CHOKE - SUYI DAVIES OKUNGBOWA
DECEMBER 7: THIS PLACE IS BEST SHUNNED - DAVID ERIK NELSON
DECEMBER 8: RED PYRAMID - VLADIMIR SOROKIN
DECEMBER 9: HOSPICE/HONEYMOON - JOYCE CAROL OATES
DECEMBER 10: MY FIRST CAR - JOY WILLIAMS
DECEMBER 11: HOW MANY - BRYAN WASHINGTON
DECEMBER 12: KENNY BOND SHOT MY DOG - CHRISSY KOLAYA
DECEMBER 13: I KNOW YOU'RE THERE - PAUL TREMBLAY
DECEMBER 14: THE THERESA JOB - COLSON WHITEHEAD
DECEMBER 15: CATTLE HAUL -JESMYN WARD
DECEMBER 16: I LIKE YOUR SHOES - KEVIN BROCKMEIER
DECEMBER 17: SOME OTHER ANIMAL'S MEAT - EMILY CARROLL
DECEMBER 18: THE MOM OF BOLD ACTION - GEORGE SAUNDERS
DECEMBER 19: THE WEIGHT - ANNE ENRIGHT
DECEMBER 20: THE FIFTH STEP - STEPHEN KING
DECEMBER 21: OUR LIFE AS THE VOLCANO CULT - KAWAI STRONG WASHBURN
DECEMBER 22: WRONG OBJECT - MONA SIMPSON
DECEMBER 23: 68:HAZARD:COLD - JANELLE SHANE

FROM THE BEFORETIMES:

2016 short story advent calendar
2017 short story advent calendar
2018 short story advent calendar
2019 short story advent calendar
2020 short story advent calendar
2021 short story advent calendar

[Antonomasia · Rating 5 out of 5]

[4.5] Dylan Thomas' nostalgic prose poem based on his 1910s-1920s childhood in Swansea. Enchanting, funny - though perhaps once or twice jarring to late-2010s progressive sensibilities.

A very short 'book' to make 75 for 2019 in my Goodreads stats. Not sure if I'd read the whole thing before, or just the beginning: I recognised "from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road". I both read the text and listened to Thomas reciting it. You can find several recordings of him on YouTube.

Favourite bits:

- Years and years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the colour of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlours, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: “It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”

I like how he is taking the piss out of old English colonial stereotypes of Wales as wild and backward, and playing with nostalgia tropes, and all this in such beautiful language that mingles it with a prouder Romanticism. Yet for all that he is putting the lie to the idea that it doesn't snow 'these days' (1952) like it used to - now, at the end of the 2010s, it *does* rarely snow like this at Christmas in Britain, and so it inevitably makes one think of climate change.

- it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards.

-a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow

-a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds

-Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs where the gas meter ticked.

It feels like 'whooed' in this sense has been a word in my head since I was a small child, but one I never spoke or wrote until now - the closest being in old favourite song/poem from Shakespeare When Icicles Hang By the Wall.

(Read December 2019, reviewed January 2020)

[Teresa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Reread.

A humorous, nostalgic tale of Christmas Eve afternoon through Christmas night, full of unique imagery and lovely phrasing.

Perhaps it's because I watched parts of the movie 'A Christmas Story' on Christmas Eve that I was reminded of Ralphie as I read this tonight-- even if there is no BB gun.