Dear Santa

Roger and the Moth

“Burn,” said the moth to the firefly, “ignite my insides.”
Roger watched intently. He could not look away. It was as if the two creatures were struggling in combat and not embraced in the unnatural erotic poise that they so obviously were.
The moth’s proboscis slid out from it’s tiny head and punctured the thorax of the firefly. The firefly shuddered briefly then died. Roger looked away, his interest in the event had waned and quickly depleted long before the killing blow.
Without noticing, Roger dipped his hand into a pool of water and then jerked it back in surprise. As he withdrew his hand his fingers stretched until they were as thin as taffy.
“This is a dream.” he said.
“No shit.” said the frog.