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|Frosty's Revenge (youngsters:fairy tales, 2347 words)|
|Author: Hulsey||Added: Jun 16 2002||Views/Reads: 4814/2006||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Can the snowman really talk to little Tommy?|
Little Tommy Whittle had prayed every night for the last week. He put on his spectacles and pulled at his bedroom curtains, his tiny hands coming together as he thanked God for answering his prayers. He reached for his toy sword and tapped his sister Melanie on the head, as she slept soundly on the lower bunk. “Mel, Mel, it's snowing. We're going to have a white Christmas,” he enthused, noisily. “Shhh! You'll wake Mum and Dad, Tommy.” Tommy was ten-years old and his bossy sister a year older. Tommy had bugged his parents for a sledge, his father moaning that it would be a waste of money. “It hardly ever snows,” would say. He eventually conceded, as he always did. Who could resist the tiny, cherub-faced boy? Tommy had always managed to get his own way. A bowed head usually did the trick. Tommy was spoilt, in fact, spoilt rotten. He was born with a hole in his heart. His parents cherished every morning that Tommy saw. His condition was stable, but he had to have regular medical checks. Melanie was more like a second mother to her brother, for she acknowledged his fragile condition. “God is having a pillow fight, Melanie,” insisted Tommy. “Go back to sleep, Tommy, it's too early.” “No fear,” he yelled, putting on his layers of clothes. He pulled the bed sheets from his sister. “Tommy! Give me em back! It's freezing.” The small boy giggled and ran off with them, his sister complaining loudly. Ten minutes later, and they were scavenging about in the garage. “I've got it Mel,” screamed Tommy. “I've found the sledge.” Mel sprinted towards the green, dragging her excited brother along, the deep snow slowing her progress. The bitter, cold wind numbed their delicate faces, the playing children ignorant of Mother Nature. Tommy scooped up a handful of the white powder and made a snowball. Mel felt the missile strike the back of her head, and the coldness running down her neck. “Stop it, Tommy. If you want me to pull you, then stop messing about.” They heard the loud rapping at the window and realised what that meant. Old Mr Pringle was awake. Arthur Pringle was sixty- seven years of age. He was the modern equivalent of Ebenezer Scrooge. He chased carol singers from his doorstep, refused to give to charities and despised children; especially children who interrupted his slumber. Pringle had never married, for nobody was sadistic enough to wed old Pringle. Pringle owned the three houses, along with the green, as he liked to remind people. He charged extortionate rent to the students who occupied his other two houses. Nobody, and he meant nobody was allowed to play on his green. He often chased children with his walking stick, their parents passing him off as an eccentric harmless old man. Most of the neighbourhood children were afraid of old Pringle, but not Tommy though. He pulled out his tongue and wiggled his fingers in his cold ears at the old man, who was shaking his fist at them. “Perhaps we should go and play somewhere else, Tommy. We don't want to upset old Pringle,” said Mel, pulling her woolly hat down to cover her freezing ears. “Let's build a snowman,” laughed Tommy. Mel shrugged. “We'll build one in our back garden then.” Click here to read the rest of this story (275 more lines)
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