Ebenezer Scrooge woke up suddenly. It took all the energy he could muster to sit upright. He was gasping, mouth parched, heart racing, and he was moist. This was his old feeble body’s way of perspiring. He cursed that damn recurring nightmare where he is visited by ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. How many times can he endure this horrifying vision without dying?

He scampered out of bed and to the window. He shouted out, “What day is it?”

A woman exclaimed, “Why, it’s Christmas.” She looked up and saw Scrooge. She threw up in her mouth, disgusted by the sight of him.

Scrooge smiled and danced a jig. His bones and joints creaked louder than the floor. The loose nightgown rustled on his dry ancient skin. In the sunlight, his decrepit face looked like it was carved on a wet piece of wood. “It’s not too late. It’s not too late!”

Scrooge folded his hands in prayer. A bright light radiated the top of his sleeping capped head. “Dear God, please bless Tiny Tim. Amen.” Within moments, he was fast asleep like a baby log.

Carve