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He stopped outside the house, cloak billowing in the needle-sharp breeze, heavy boots sinking into the snow.
This was it, the final challenge. The last of the year, it was nearly over.
He waited a minute and, sure enough, the last light in the window shut off. Right on time.
But this would be tough, a worthy challenge. He would need all his skills for this last hit, be ever alert and careful.
The big house snoozed in the snow, but he knew it watched. There were a hundred eyes peering from the windows.
The guards were tireless and eagle-eyed. It was near impossible to get past them, as he well knew. But this year he would - in and out, no problems.
Make the hit and disappear. That was always the plan, but he’d been caught too many times.
Staying out of sight of the vigilant watchers, he made the final checks.
Yes, there it was, in the living room. The hit wouldn’t be too tough after all, a quick strike. He knew what he came for, and that was all that mattered.
He sneaked around the side, skirting in the shadows. But it was slow going - a crisp night, his weight cracking the hard layer of snow with every step.
The moonlight glistened across the garden, lighting the black smile of a snowman there. It gave a button wink and settled back down.
There was no way to approach from the front, too many watchers to raise the alarm.
This would have to be done the traditional way. But if someone was waiting, it would be a disaster - they’d get exactly what they wanted.
He clambered onto the garage roof without a hitch. Years of practise had made him an agile climber, despite his appearance. A small window on the side of the house was all to be wary of. But wary he was, and a for a second he thought he saw two little eyes peering up at him, starlight gleaming there, intrigued. He looked again, nothing there.
No matter, he was on the roof - the hard part over, the rest was like every other hit.
A silver giggle crept into the frosty night.
And he was in.
His mind has forgotten how through the years, but he was in.
Standing in the last house, the final hit of the year.
He set to work. It was his art, and he loved it.
This part had never lost it’s attraction - setting everything out just right. They would scream in the morning.
His beautiful art.
Finished.
A low, dead creak from the stairs.
“Santa!” Someone squealed.
He hung his head and sighed, spotted again. He was too old for this.
The children swamped him.
This was it, the final challenge. The last of the year, it was nearly over.
He waited a minute and, sure enough, the last light in the window shut off. Right on time.
But this would be tough, a worthy challenge. He would need all his skills for this last hit, be ever alert and careful.
The big house snoozed in the snow, but he knew it watched. There were a hundred eyes peering from the windows.
The guards were tireless and eagle-eyed. It was near impossible to get past them, as he well knew. But this year he would - in and out, no problems.
Make the hit and disappear. That was always the plan, but he’d been caught too many times.
Staying out of sight of the vigilant watchers, he made the final checks.
Yes, there it was, in the living room. The hit wouldn’t be too tough after all, a quick strike. He knew what he came for, and that was all that mattered.
He sneaked around the side, skirting in the shadows. But it was slow going - a crisp night, his weight cracking the hard layer of snow with every step.
The moonlight glistened across the garden, lighting the black smile of a snowman there. It gave a button wink and settled back down.
There was no way to approach from the front, too many watchers to raise the alarm.
This would have to be done the traditional way. But if someone was waiting, it would be a disaster - they’d get exactly what they wanted.
He clambered onto the garage roof without a hitch. Years of practise had made him an agile climber, despite his appearance. A small window on the side of the house was all to be wary of. But wary he was, and a for a second he thought he saw two little eyes peering up at him, starlight gleaming there, intrigued. He looked again, nothing there.
No matter, he was on the roof - the hard part over, the rest was like every other hit.
A silver giggle crept into the frosty night.
And he was in.
His mind has forgotten how through the years, but he was in.
Standing in the last house, the final hit of the year.
He set to work. It was his art, and he loved it.
This part had never lost it’s attraction - setting everything out just right. They would scream in the morning.
His beautiful art.
Finished.
A low, dead creak from the stairs.
“Santa!” Someone squealed.
He hung his head and sighed, spotted again. He was too old for this.
The children swamped him.
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Subtle
Praying Mantis wrote:
> I will read it sometime within the next week, when I get time I will
> actually read it. Until then, wait with anticipation.
...
> I will read it sometime within the next week, when I get time I will
> actually read it. Until then, wait with anticipation.
...
You should end it,
"Santa" the little kid squeeled and he fell into the swamp, "save me!"
"Santa" the little kid squeeled and he fell into the swamp, "save me!"
Moistly?
I will read it sometime within the next week, when I get time I will actually read it. Until then, wait with anticipation.
Funnily enough, the ending was giving me some trouble.
It went:
>A low, dead creak from the stairs.
>He hung his head and sighed, spotted again. He was too old for this.
>
>“Santa!” Someone squealed.The children swamped him.
Like that just before I posted it, which was worse.
Getting rid of the last bit didn't occur to me, and would have made it better.
It went:
>A low, dead creak from the stairs.
>He hung his head and sighed, spotted again. He was too old for this.
>
>“Santa!” Someone squealed.The children swamped him.
Like that just before I posted it, which was worse.
Getting rid of the last bit didn't occur to me, and would have made it better.
.
ok then
.
ok then
.
I'm not typing out stories that are scratched down in a notepad.
I'd like to read some
*scratches*
I'm a good critic :-D
*scratches*
I'm a good critic :-D
Er, about 2 weeks ago, actually.
Just because I don't post stories on some forum, doesn't mean I don't write them.
Just because I don't post stories on some forum, doesn't mean I don't write them.
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