Twas the Night Before Christmas 2024

With the usual apology to Clement Clarke Moore, who spins in his grave every time I do one of these.

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the site, trespassers keep coming, hawking wares left ‘n’ right.
First Dirk and now Bill, both armed with dark power, delete you we may, fake members we scour.

Sol held a contest, new users were added, but more we do need, our ranks must be padded.
Our grand Christmas wish, revamping the site, review-only members, could help us that might.

Marilyn’s posting her latest great tale, a story of critters, sweet angels who ail.
Evildoers beware, cause Mellie’s off leash, a rottweiler dog, turned Vince into quiche.

Jack just completed a thrilling new yarn, subplots-a-many, mob gangsters he’ll harm.
Already he found, a buyer to publish; so tale that he wove, won’t end in the rubbish.

Terry has paused his wild posting rate, taking a breather, to recuperate.
His fingers grew tired of typing so fast, review he still does, and nits he does blast.

Bill’s been a-posting, his latest fine story, an undersea thriller, so far nothing gory.
But something dark lurks, beneath the still water, I don’t yet know what, nor who it may slaughter.

Dirk is still working on two endless tales; many fine heroes, but too many males. Aside from that issue, one thing does remain, a forty-page chapter, must trim it again.

George is progressing, albeit slowly, his story of spirits, the West, and things holy.
In thanks for his feedback, a smart move he hopes, I’ll make him a Cath’lic, the first female pope.

K is reworking his novel again, draft seven of Laurie, he prays it will end.
In thanks for his comments, mistake though may be, cause Kay he became, femme fatale now is he.

New Jersey’s a ghost, we see him so little, but help out he does, his thumbs never twiddle.
Immortal I made him, believe it or not, his name’s an equation, a part of my plot.

Nathan’s been here since 2008, at last he’s my victim, of a poem this great.
His portfolio’s huge, from memoirs to fiction, bigfoot to sailboats, all with great diction.

Barry still visits, reworking his tale, “The Twelfth Moon” — a sci-fi, space rangers can’t fail!
A little bit gross it may yet become, but those were old drafts, new stuff has he spun.

Morag is writing fine horror times two, perhaps Jimmy Hoffa’s in two-forty-two.
This year I did learn, Scots speak crazy fast, with commas too slow, their patience won’t last.

Randy I’ll venture is blowing stuff up, blood he will spill, filling thy cup.
Vern’s always here, lurking about, portfolio full, fine tales — have no doubt.
Pam has returned, connections remade, as soon as you post, reviews we can trade.

Alan’s away, he comes and he goes, caring for loved ones, we miss him he knows.
Alan and Di, we wish you both well, the spirit of Christmas, within you shall dwell.
Lauren, whenever, drop by if you can, root for you we do, you’re part of our clan.
Elysse is off too, recovering now, a series of mishaps, so time we allow.
Bobbie is absent, though we know not where, we wish her fine health, this season take care.

And so as I finish this horrible poem, my thanks to you all, cause surely I owe ‘em.
More time did I waste on this very date, when really I’d hoped to re-cip-ro-cate.

Happy Holidays!
Dirk