Because nothing says Hither Holiday Season like the Kris Kringle of Krabby, and because as you will soon hear, your Miette has learnt that nothing says Hither Holidays like a Headcold, tonight’s story speaks for its self.

Nice title, right? In my efforts to knock your socks to obscurantist skies, I’m willing to offer a dollar to the first listener who can prove he or she already knows of this story (currently in the running (BY THE WAY) for Miette’s Top Short Fiction Find of the Decade, and how’s that for a reason to listen?). And how to prove this? I don’t know.

Today’s is another story by an author of whom I know very little, which I’ve plucked from a collection of Big Guns German fiction including Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, Kafka’s Metamorphosis, Hoffmansthall, Hermann Broch, ad krautium,

But would you believe that I spent the last couple of weeks dedicated to trying mightily and hard to uncover the identity of tonight’s author before hurling the fruits of these findings to splat on your walls. Maybe I spent the week after mired in self-pity at having failed you… failed YOU, the Internet, whom I adore.