Holy Day

In the floodlit winter warmth, the office party night were set to follow their tradition. The Santa Clause hats are out and the Secret Santa presents past around, denting little the Christmas credit card bill.

“That’s the spirit,” they say to each other before spying the ragged pair huddling in the doorway.

“Walk fast when you walk past,” they whisper hiding from their god.

About Lindsay Craik

Writer & Poet Poetry, plays and short stories
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