Poetry from Michael Robinson

Middle aged Black man facing the camera with his face resting on his hand
Michael Robinson


Heaven a place where thy son reigns beside you. 

Jesus has given me life through his gentle presence. 

Grace has been with me since the initial sunrise. 


A choir of angels celebrates your Almighty name.  

Heaven awaits my precious soul with thy grace. 

Tears drop to the ground once again with joy.  


Prayers that have never forgotten you within me.   

A place within my soul within your gentleness.  

Love that has been reflected at the altar within me. 





Poetry from Alan Catlin

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 2

Stunted, wasted trees at
conflagration’s end along

the ink blasted creek
only dead things float in.

What remains of a bled-
out sickle moon is being

swallowed by gasoline fire
clouds. It’s always midnight

where the blackwater runs.
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 4

The hard work of dying 
has already taken place here

in this used-to-be-landscape
artist’s sought refuge in

during night terrors where
the paint they used to create

images became the blood
of slaves pressed upon 

spoiled canvas.

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann: Blackwater 18

Sideways rain raises
blisters on all that

it touches. Still black
water is inert as a dream

image terror is trying
to escape from.  Here,

even the tree’s shadows 
have shadows that radiate

a constant pain.

Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann:
	Blackwater with Lightning

Maybe the end times
had begun and only

the woman with a camera
noticed how the black

sky was split wide open
by crooked, spoiled veins,

electricity bolts;
heat licks the dry fallow

earth instead of rain.
Southern Gothic: A Romance after Sally Mann:
	Swamp Bones

If the juncture where dream
becomes nightmare could be

captured as an image in
a photograph it would look

like this: massive ground root
structures like broken bones

emerging from a gripping fog
then frozen, severed from their

subordinate trunks in a fetal, 
pain of light.
Southern Gothic: A Romance After Sally Mann:
	Antietam (Starry Night)

An explosion of fireflies
is superimposed on paint-it-

black-night as present as a landscape 
Vincent would have painted if he arose

from the dead in this place, haunted
by the 30,000 lost souls who fought 

here and accomplished nothing.

Poetry from Steven Croft

Rock Stars Play Ukraine, Visit Mass Grave in Bucha

"if there is a dark now we shouldn't doubt,
and there is a light, don't let it go out"


The wounds of history opening again over their heads.
Where is love, true, beautiful, reliable, where is love?
Just a purple cast of light.

They open with "Vertigo," sick metaphor for a shaken country,
but they hope to bring ease, some joy, that could spread, rise
up the stairs to the grim, shattered land above.

Later they visit a mass grave by a church in Bucha.  Our tainted
past now our present, Falkenau the impossible, still possible,
still possible, how long, how long? still possible.

War is unthinkable, right above us, just around a sudden corner.
How long?  How long?  Still, there must be light, even if only one
small bulb, like still hangs in Picasso's Guernica, even if purple light

in an underground.  They won't let it go out, those old rock stars.


We all remember the castle work of mud-brick buildings,
their twisting byways a witch work of flowering bombs,
always leading to that backcloth of endless desert,
where sand and smoke of explosions clung to us
day and night

How we were shocked by the first death, not the next,
and the next, and the next, pruning us every
day and night

The guy ropes that held up the idea of our war snapped
quickly, but none of us left home to save a world.
Many died, some broke to shadows.  The truth is
war is just an endurance every day and night


I remember the day the Afghans won
at Darulaman Camp, a dusty way station for us

into and out of the mountains around Kabul,

that day's unexpected legerdemain of feet,

jockeying of bodies.  We rolled in from an overnight

in Paghman to see those Afghans who ladled

food out in the dining hall, worked in the kitchen,

kicking a soccer ball between shifts in the brown

dirt-field center of the camp's jogging track.  And

as we climbed from the Humvees some young Afghan

danced the ball on his toes and called something

over to us in a sharp, cheerful voice.  One of those we'd

never heard from or spoken to, only one of the camp's

assigned minders, some American who'd mastered

enough words of Pashto, a hired translator

always in tow, had, but Sergeant Hines, brash

and, always, brimful of stupid courage, instantly

took his words as a challenge, some childhood dare.

Stripping off body armor, ammo pouches, 9-mil

with holster, he called on his friends, who were game,

to also strip to the brown t-shirt under every combat

uniform and follow him onto the field given grandeur

by a vista of snow-capped mountains.  Motioning

for the ball, he matched the Afghan's toe dances, passed

it back, Sergeant Hines who cared little for academics but

played two years of enthusiastic soccer for Georgia Southern.

Sergeant Hines, who suddenly was playing informally

for Army, was star again as we leaned against the Humvees,

but his friends couldn't match the swift passes, quick steals

of the Afghans and after an hour passed and the scores

punched through the orange road cone goals were

one to three against us, the dust of camaraderie,

admiration of skill that blurs the lines between teams,

had risen over the field and spread over us too.  And

finally, Hines admitted defeat, with much shoulder

slapping and laughter from both sides.

And later in the pass-through food line, through

the glass sneeze guards separating Afghan servers

and Americans, there were, for the first time, smiles

from both sides.

Transcending Zero

Mummy's lapis and gold coffin

over fossilized death

Magician's behind the ear trick

of the coin

Aquarium-trapped seahorse's


Out of defeat,


Przewlski horses returning

to Chernobyl

A hanging man


A US Army combat veteran, Steven Croft lives happily on a barrier island off the coast of Georgia on a property lush with vegetation and home to various species of birds and animals. His poems have appeared in Liquid Imagination, The Five-Two, Ariel Chart, Eunoia Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, Synchronized Chaos, and other places, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

Short story from Jim Meirose

Okay now, Pastafrieszer.  What do you want me to do?
Off Turbulino. 
Off Turbulino; who.

Okay. Go on. 
 Off. Turbulino, Off. Turbulino Turbulino Turbulino, Off. Turbulino; who? 
Hiss off Turbulino who. 

Off Turbulino wh’ ‘o. Off Turbulino w’ ‘ho. Off Turbulino, who? Who? Who Off? Turbulino? Or Off Turbulino? Or Off Turbulino, who? 
Oke oke.

Wassa! Giddyup, Turbulino! Giddyup Off! Giddyup giddyup wasa wasa Turbulino, who?
Ghasta. Mon ghasta. Mon Ghasta Turbulino’d Off ‘da big Turbulino, who? Tucumcarro-wowo. Tucumcaro-wowo who? Lastafisharians! Lastafisharians! Lasta-off Turbulino lasta off’n the fisharianisticals, too! 
For the right and the good of the mystical other world where we all end up anyway these must be—eliminated; elli-elle hey maw these must be eliminated by name haw haw hold it softer and slower please you are Off turbu—breaking up and—lino off sounding bogged down.
Owkai wooney betta; now?
Yes papillary. Esso. Pappillary. Go.
GhostFred Von Terbulino maw maw mai-sweet, and her Fred the Ghostess, arms-akimbo. Got that?

Yes go. 
Okay Rally-round the fla’ oke oke. Huh hunchydown splitt-toonea the youn’ Giddy-pap. Giddy-pap. ‘er got that? Norway gotterpap hunkily-bunqui. 
No you are breaking way up. Way way up. 
Wrenchindafist way too tight heckindafistica. Who? Gahhh knucklyblusters. Gahhh. May I pluck please that marliebone? Off Turbulino, who? In fancydanced figuatures well written yet somehow Off Turbulino inadequate somehow Off Turbulino-too. Offensive. Off Turbulino. Very offensively off dat turbinitianned big fast Turbulino too! That off! That off! Was-shashstistickinnanne’d off pluck’ ghast of a shackilly hot Turbulino, too. Meeshashee-moo. Big cows! Big cows! Big cows go meeshashee-moonienne’s flash turbulinos, too. Big daddy swept out his pot. To feed big cows out from yelling meeshashee-moonienne’s flash turbulinos please plea’ ple’ no not me, too!

Oke oke oke. Oooo. ‘n elsewise? 
Fish-men! The fish-men! All the fish-men plus; the following:
Ghastlienne Snappudia nee Turbulino. Mangia-gashette the youngerawan’s teatglass. Avast ye landlubbers know zouppe fo’ u. Lasty tie ten rags round yer face in the interest of its big better-be-clean campaign ( you know the one failes before it starts) I am George I say it is hell being old and I am I am and I, tired before I start. 
Tired before. I start.

Too many flick-slippers’ they gift me each Christmas-time.
No himagination, sus’pose.
Tired before. I start. 
Please sew up my gash, doc. I’ll lay back’n me lickliner. Do it very very good, doc. And I’ll praise ‘u good’n plenty. Hop-Cockula! All praises all fish-men big cows’n dem dere turbulinos, too. The fish men the fish men men me’ m’n men men doodliewisician’s fast ghastly whipmen, too! Off. Turbulino. Off Turbulino. Off Turbulino Off. Turbulino! Turbulino Off. Turbulino Off Turbulino. Off Turbulino Off off Off ghasta-Turbulentionelleianed vast pocka-bock Off that there Turbulino, too! Spit hack patooey! Spit hack Off patooie’s big, vast, wallow of a Turbulino too! N-n-n-n-d’d? What gives with the prizes? Off Turbulino? What gives with the prizes what prizes these prizes and who’s off that big Turbulino o’ there, too? I don’t get why we have to do this. 

Turbulino. I don’t get why we have to do all this and b’ backsides off’n this here Turbulino, too. Oh yah sure you may praise your Gods manysizes you want, but we still got to get hatchen’ off all these here Turbulinos. Too! I’m afraid we may need additional bodies here. To do all this work this to do allk this workity wonkhonking, too. Muddy wallows fulla’ witches and one two evilly spirited spirit-men, too! Hot-t-t-t ho-o-o-t-t-t-t h-o-o-o-o-o-t-t-t-t ehah! Ehah! Ehaha!
Doc garble these down doc! 
Hot Petunia! 

<clear air>
Okay now that the air has cleared, thanks to the breeze gusted up round round baby round round, here’s. We must make right what this clan has turned wrong. Too long our roost’s been ruled by D. Act we must we must act hiccup-cause we don’t sue soi halfundanalle’s planet ‘ll be n’ hoe thrall of the Tumturbilnos hag gah do not take the healing wind from us please! Off Turbulino pawk do not take Off Turbulino Off pawwk take the healing Turbulino 

Off Turbulino pawwwk pertropterequertie healing wind off us please, Mr. Syndrome—Off noo known Turbulino cure off Off Turbulino no gone Mr; Syndrome drat Off o-f-f-f nop known cure Turbulino no known cure for Off cure for drat drat these bananas’r gone rotten yes the Pop did one time rule an entire VatiVan or two whoop-whoop this being certified torrentialezed by Turbulino by artificial Off Turbulino’ mass-aretficially prefabricated means Off Turbulino causing mass magnitation of all nearby spirits, atchoo! Heck, doof; off also may mean porefabricated t-t-t-t-t sweet sweet Turbulino Off this si the emit Turbulino Off the emit for lla good Turbulino Off Turbulino Off Turbulino lla good nem to emoc-umoc Off Turbulino tri-titularically come to the aid of their country hurculaneum-styled hoch! Time for a good old-fashioned hot drench-sweat. Off Turbulino what Turbilino? Thaddeus Turbulino of coarse he and his ten pencil-think’d henchmen. So battenda’ yon hatches.
God willing! 

What price the freeze? 
Uh, Off Turbulino Off Turbulino hackatptwatoeey splat ackoff course!  Marie-Strider Good-n-Plentiful stole ten names off a boxcar side in the Off Turbulino Off the torrential rains of the last Turbulino, Off a Turbulino, never to be repeated off, damned Turbulino! I am not Shakespeare no cut da fish-rod twice just coulda’ not meter it in, solildly, twice! 
Off Turbulino.
Off Turbulino Off. 

Turbulino run ‘round Turbulino Off Turbulino like a record bray-be must half peened brutally hard off his donkey numbered in the ear Off Turbulino numbered in its ear Off Turbulino Off yah numbered in its numbered in its hey ha numbered up filled that cup so painfilly Jerry-Loius’ expanded drug face in the middle of the AM face; yes and nothing ended coming of his big fat telethonisticanne-laboring daily-day’s big fat bash, too! H’ cut his strips so very fine, so many years. But, hot-pick; Turbulino, who imagines when something’s Off, been Turbulino for Off years, and Turbulino years until everyone’s confronted with it then yank! Yank! Tank yank ‘t down Off that there great big grossly alien looking somehow big Turbulino too! So; so! So; …. so, behind this whole big plot to purge us we when they reach a depth of ten factory-spans we stopped them there. 
No. No. Too vague. 

Factory-spans. That could be from a few meters to several thousand yards centimentrical metering meters-thick, so—be more specific, then.
Okay, Say ten feet.
Okay, there you go, here we are they can’t allowed t’ go no lower.

Off Turbulino okay there you Off Turbulino Off Turbulino there you fo’ there you are they Off cannot Turbulino be Off allowed to go an inch lower ah their battlescars behold them behold them in their battlescars first Eric Turbulino their battlescars their then, myself first Eric Off Turbulino Off Turbulino then myself Off Turbulino hint hint Off Turbulino wink wink Off Turbulino nudge nudge Off Turbulino get it hey Off hey Turbulino get Off it Turbulino hey Off hey get it go you get it wink wink nudge nudge hey ya hot copsa’ dickey, n’ fat too!
S'what ‘f it?
So this completes the narrative of the last statements. 

So dem thymes’ a-wastin here’s the backside’s the list shot shoo Melanie fast-turbulino off their very rocker of the defendant allegedly flying his pastor into the bricks of the and small might turbo-mind down the jang-jinglin’ deep of the place hah! Hah! ‘ff okay knives out peterpans’ wall for his homes for funerals the chains of which less’s more for the drillin’ get fast for once ouch this Turbulino Off to that side then that Turbulino Off to the other then swat; he had owned singlehanded until up to over the top of very recently his deteriorated Turbulino Off undering the deep tableplace under style, mmmmoooooo-cow, the prank d’ ‘lectrical fencegrab wow that feels Turbulino Off Turbulino funny wow wow this feels really really funny what high Off Turbulino 

Off voltage state of mind yes of course can be seen clearly by the pottering stride of thought all gone and all wrong; all gone baloney high Turbulino voltage come on under through I can hold it Off Turbulino Off Turbulino Off Turbulino look the hell at me I am holding it hurry Off con-hurry well zip zip, I’ll be damned, Willy, looks like I gone did drop dead for my country being bad enough by itself, and all wrong by the same logic, also; but all gone and all wrong together pose the insurmountable peak atop the already mountainous body of evidence hiss and boo Turbulino Off Turbulino Off boo and hiss okay, so there, St. Peter. That’s the full drip out my high death for my country Turbulino faucet’s open Off drip Turbulino drip drip Off drip drip drip Turbulino drip drip drip drip off rounded up written down and presented to you for your pleasure here today.
To wit;
Yes to wit;
We sign our names and, hey, uh, wawa.
So. Know what to do now? Know what’s our pleasure?
No. Not at all.
Okay now, Pastafrieszer. Repeat everything to me, but; a bit slower this time, please.
Just do it.

Short story from Candace Meredith

Horrors at Summer Camp

Candace Meredith

“It’s not a good summer camp without the scary predator lurking in the woods is it?” Janelle said as she used her fingers to crawl spider-like down her sister Daphne’s spine. 

“Wait,” she laughed, “like Jason or Freddy…”

“More like lurking in the woods rather than our dreams…”

“Okay, so Jason…”

“Yeah. Like Jason.”

Then a sudden loud scream interrupted their banter. 

“Josh!” Daphne wailed. 

“What?” He laughed uncontrollably while the girls looked for their flashlights, thankful Josh had his where they could see his face.

Summer camp wasn’t the Yogi Bear resort for teens but a real trip away from home, nestled in the woods, staying in cabins and other nights in tents, and getting a real feel for the great outdoors. Camp City was called Camp Madness by the teens who go there because the whole experience was intense. Rocky owned the camp for the past decade; he built the place for teens who didn’t live much outside of their New York style condos. They weren’t all rich but many were; their parents sent them to camp when they were at their last resort; Rocky welcomed the troubled kids and made sure they learned a little about a hard knock life and a bit about survival. The camp was without electric, cell phone service and flushing toilets; Rocky had a thing for the authentic. 

Their day began when the sun was still down and the only running water was the nearby creek. They literally had to collect water and boil it to purify its contents. The girls, Daphne and Janelle, struggled at first but then Janelle got a real thrill at night telling horror stories. 

It was the first night Daphne stayed in her sister’s cabin when Janelle entertained the idea of the predator with the chainsaw. 

There were at first taps upon the window when Daphne began to stay there. Janelle rolled over in her bunk and snarled, “go away creep.” She knew Josh was always up toying with them. As the taps grew louder still she got out of her bunk to confront him; she opened the cabin door expecting that Josh would leap from the bushes at any minute but instead her piercing scream rang through the camp and Daphne awoke with chills down her spine. 

She went out first to console her sister who she fathomed had a nightmare; Janelle used to sleep walk as a child. Daphne’s bare bottoms of her feet touched the grass and moss to find that her sister was not there. The camp lights went on - mere lanterns that sat out the doorway for late night bathroom breaks. 

The campers filed out their front doors to find out what Janelle screamed about when Josh approached Daphne. 

“What happened?” He said groggily. 

“My sister’s scream.” She was familiar with that scream. 

Rocky arrived late. He peered into each cabin to find Janelle hopefully somewhere among them. 

The camp was a place of strict confinement for troubled youth. But Josh concurred that someone went too far this time around. 

When morning broke they formed a search party that spanned the distance of the camp ground. There were bear tracks that were seen pacing the camp.

“Must have drug her away.” A camper said when Daphne began to panic. 

“Shut up.” She scolded Ricky who shrugged. 

Some of the youth were callous as troubled as they were.

Ricky was one among them who dared to be so bleak and his impatience made Daphne want to scream back at him. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep searching,” Josh tried to console her. 

Rocky initiated a buddy system for going outside the cabins. A night duty was up through the night in the cabin’s office and a missing person report was filed. 

A search team was organized outside of the camp after the confines of the camp were thoroughly searched and Janelle was reported as not being there. 

Daphne slept in her bunk entirely restless when her folks did not bring her home. They were hippies who were getting stoned and after the meth lab experience Daphne didn’t want to be there; she was being turned over to the custody of Social Services once the camp ended. 

The troubled youth mostly came from a troubled home. Rocky gave them a means to escape the life they were given. Boys like Josh and Ricky wanted the city but the camp gave them an alternative focus from the streets. 

Nothing out of the usual had ever occurred at the camp. 

“Can you tell us exactly what happened?” The officer asked Daphne.

“I heard her scream.” 

The idea of her sleep walking did not alarm the officers who were reported for duty and the open case made them restless as a coyote, bear or wolf could be near. 

That night without Janelle made Daphne feel restless when the tapping upon the window returned and she sat up in bed; for a cabin that sleeps six it appeared no one else heard the tapping at the window.

“Stupid bird.” Daphne assumed there was a woodpecker behind the pecking on the glass. The tapping continued and was too piercing to ignore and Daphne stepped out of her bed and tried to awaken one of the girls, “do you hear that?” 

Tessa shoved her shoulder, “no jerk.” She wasn’t fully awake. Daphne sighed and then she heard her screaming but no one was waking. 

Outside the wind whipped her face; the dry air made her feel like she was suffocating. She grasped at the base of her neck as though she had begun choking; she got down to her knees when she heard the breaking of twigs in the brush. She crawled to be back inside the cabin but she became weighted like an anvil, as if she were dragging her entire body through the muck, and she gagged. The air around her began to smell of raw sewage because she hadn’t known the scent of death and decay. 

Her sister’s scream continued still and she felt as though she were dying; as if she were being pushed into the dirt; as if the land before her would part and she would cave into the fiery pit called hell; she knew not why but she felt the eyes of a demon cutting through her and into her soul but she could not get the demon out of her. 

She choked more, trying to hold back vomit, as the stench of her sister’s rotting corpse permeated the landscape; her sister was all around her then. In the form of something demonic and gruesome. She thirsted for water as if that alone would lessen the intensity of the heat she felt.

This wasn’t Jason. It was something like a demon but this time it wasn’t all a dream; her demise wasn’t of flesh like Freddy; Daphne gasped for a breath but her lungs filled with a fluid - a substance like bile and blood that was curdled.

She didn’t know if the demon had taken her sister; she couldn’t see anything tangible but she felt it all like an all-encompassing evil; the stories in the books gave it no justice. 

She felt the skin on her back as it began to tear like knives for claws slit her skin in a smooth and rounded edge as her blood began to seep into the ground that was giving way beneath her body. The look of terror on her face was insurmountable as Josh went to her but she was feigning death as far as he could see when the air around her became more stagnant and she thought he was coming to her possibly in a dream - perhaps all she needed to do was awaken - why couldn’t Josh see her - or what did he see?

Her sister’s screams grew louder like a piercing hum from the reverberation of an old motor like metal on metal. Josh stood before her but as though he was looking through her when he parted his trench coat and from beneath the cloak was a pick ax and Rocky came to him from behind the brush; Daphne wanted to scream like her sister but this time her cries were stifled in blood and vomit. She wanted to call for help - there’s no fucking bear! She thought to herself in a mind that could be her own worst enemy. 

Could she awaken? Was it all a dream? 

Rocky took the pick ax from Josh and together they turned toward her and stopped as if by command when the force of a demonic entity seemed to enter her. 

She began to convulse and her eyes turned to a milky white when everything around her turned to a haze. Through the opaque lens in the complete blackness of night she did not become a voice; the sheer terror of hell’s inferno ablaze in her mind’s eye was the only moment of lucidity. 

The beast was the demon, or the hound of hell, she could not know the difference and her blood curdled from her mouth like a cheese in the mix of heat: the stench was putrid and Josh and Rocky were unfazed as they entered the dark night and said they would have their way again- this time the victim would be more alarming. 

“Must have been some bear.” Josh said from beside her hospital bed; but that hospital was unlike the others. She could not move from the straps that bound her to the bed and every night before sleep she heard the tapping of nails on the glass pane and the screeching cacophony of her sister screaming was beyond the nightmare. An intense scream that no one around her acknowledged. No one but her seemed to notice and so was the end of peace or life as she knew it. She was in hell.

Poetry from Andrew MacDonald

Gone if come quick

Gone if come quick 
death-bound not leased 
life itself shocked 
in repeating

energy forms 
present in our
sinuous room 
trite flesh repaints
too pretended

‘neath up-ends of
convulsants groomed
each night by way
of visitors

their breath not yet
but his here re-
membered to loom
and hang over

wait releasing
its gain of chance
not to happen,
left intending

some next visit
a round to please
with help a bed
soft undressing.

Hard-bound out-takes

Hard-bound out-takes
cherish the score
six cards their worth
can knock to shame

of what gets us
pity at the last
and grieve, forgive
if take, put-back.

But side-steps verve,
hold what hands flood
to up-shot nods
of truce down one

when got back wired
if secret pleads
the case that’s tried
of cards their yield.

Here are some sad ones got nerve

Here are some sad ones got nerve
and with no rules get smart of,
steel a love yet-born-made-fun
to sprawl upon new ground a-
bove the heart’s intent, surface
of dreams their truths tidbits what
un-dead reams if rolled out-live
mem’ries each pleat back their moves
showing in bright dread what we
feed of, maggots on broke scenes
incumbent mind pangs, taking 
for sore truths unreasoned and
yet hard-proved while we dance-out
our naked bests empires hold.

Andrew Cyril Macdonald considers the role of inter-subjectivity in poetic encounter. He celebrates the confrontations between self and Other and the challenges that occur in moments of injustice. He is founding editor of Version (9) Magazine, a poetry journal that implicates all things theoretic. You can find his words in such places as Blaze VOX, Experiential-Experimental-Literature, Fevers of the Mind, Lothlorien, Nauseated Drive, Otoliths, Synchronized Chaos, Strukturriss, Unlikely Stories and more. When not writing he is busy caring for seven rescued cats and teaching a next generation of poets.

Poetry from Chimezie Ihekuna

Dotting the ‘’I’’ and Crossing the ‘’T’’ of ChrisTmas

‘’Chris, what do you intend to do this season?’’ asked his friend, Tmas.
‘’Well, it’s a season we need each other’’ responded Chris
‘’What do you mean?’’
‘’In life, particularly this season, it takes two to tango’’
‘’Please explain more’’ Tmas said, looking more anxious
‘’look at us. We can join forces to make this holiday worthwhile.’’

‘’We have what it takes to make the celebration a memorable one’’
‘’What’s it, Chris?’’
‘’It’s simply Dotting the ‘I’ and crossing the ‘T’ of Christmas’’
‘’Chris, there you go again! I’m lost in your explanation, right now’’
‘’You see, my name is Chris. Yours is Tmas. Right?’’
‘’If we agree to work this season out together, you would see that the ‘I’ in the name ‘Chris’ and the ‘T’ in the name ‘Tmas’ means a lot’’

‘’So what?’’
‘’The ‘I’ being dotted and the ‘T’ being crossed will bring about you and I to tango’’
‘’If we decided to put our names together, we would savor the season’’
‘’I see’’ Tmas responded, having a clue where Christ is driving at.

‘’Chris, my name. Tmas, your name. If we joined our names, it would be ChrisTmas!’’
‘’Wow’’ exclaimed the fascinated Tmas. ‘’It’s interesting to know how the dotting of the ‘I’ of your name and crossing of the ‘T’ of my name can make a befitting ChrisTmas!’’
‘’That’s the spirit!’’ Chris assured. ‘’You see dotting the ‘I’ and crossing the ‘T’ of our names as we practically tango, or should I say, ‘work together?’ will earn us ChrisTmas!’’

‘’That’s thoughtful of you’’, Tmas reasoned. ‘’Let’s get into the business of working together or like you’ve just said, ‘let’s tango’’’
‘’Tmas, that’s what I’ve been saying about Dotting the ‘I’ and Crossing the ‘T’ of ChrisTmas!’’ Chris Concluded.