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""The Hit""

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.

When did you last write a story Azul?

Exactly :-p

(I feel so bad trying to be mean to someone who has been so nice to me)

I also thought that "swamped" made that sentence feel a little awkward.
But I don't think you could've ended it on "Santa!".

The last line "The children swamped him" was really not needed.

It would probably be better to end with "Santa"...


Good though :-D

Excellent.
Keeps you guessing at sinister motives throughout, then at the instant of reading "Santa!", you know.
Nicely built up, and good descriptive detail.
And the final 2 sentences finish it well.
Very good indeed, sir.

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.