Frosty's Revenge (youngsters:fairy tales, 2347 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 16 2002	Views/Reads: 6005/2834	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.” 


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