In The Bleak Midwinter
He peers
directly toward me, eyes watering in the icy wind. He can’t see me of course;
no one can.
Shaking his
head, he turns for home, tightly clutching the charity bag; protecting its precious
contents.
He had the
feeling. They all get it. Nothing I can do, just complete the job. I quicken my
pace, closing with him, footsteps crunching on the newly gritted paving.
I reach out and touch
his shoulder lightly, tenderly. He shudders and drops like a shot pheasant.
The bag bursts,
toys decorating the street.
He drifts towards the blinding bright light.
I hate
Christmas.
100 Words
@nickjohns999 This story was written for the Friday Fictioneer challenge from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Sounds like the Grinch incognito or the Angel of Death. Not a nice character to be sure.
ReplyDeleteI was aiming for a juxtaposition of the merry Christmas lit scene and what happens beneath the surface.
ReplyDeleteYou succeeded. ;)
ReplyDeleteOK, this is the third try at trying to get the site to accept both my comment and my profile info. I think you did a good job of showing death coming at a time when people expect if not joy, at least not death.
ReplyDeleteThanks for persevering Janet! I'm glad that it worked for you.
DeleteHe he not Ho Ho with that invisible menace of christmas.
ReplyDeleteHow very sad.
ReplyDeleteEspecially with toys decorating the street.
How sad!
ReplyDeleteWell written!
Thanks Abraham
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