I’m blood-sworn to thievery for Christmas fellowship, inviting my fellow brigands over for feasting. We sit at the tilting table, dividing with laughter. I serve them in fine—their eyes glinting like the burial-price of a golden earring, Their goblets are raised at my annual rum-punch magnanimity, their scurvy bellies once again full. They remember their risky lives, their skulls and bones when they see the serrated steak knife clenched between my grinning teeth: a toast, to the seasonal wind blowing us down.
The Wayne Literary Review: Escapism
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