His grandchildren gathered in front of the fire, cups of hot chocolate warming their tiny hands. Granddad sat in his leather chair, the flames from the fireplace flickering in his pale blue eyes. It was Christmas Eve, time for a story.
“When I was a young boy,” Granddad began, “snow was a rare event. But one Christmas morning, I woke to snow covering the ground behind my father’s shop. I had never seen snow before and begged to go outside. But my mother told me to wait. My father stood at the window, watching with trepidation.
A BOOM shook the house.
Just snow thunder, my father said. Nothing to worry about.
But the sound grew louder, closer. It came from the hill behind the alley.
My mother whispered to father. Will the fence keep it out? I never knew my mother to be afraid. She lured me from the window with the promise of a cookie.
Time stood still, sucking the oxygen from the room. Then magically it passed. I ran to the window, afraid the snow had melted. What I saw intrigued me: large footprints coming down the hill, headed toward town.
The fence had not kept it out.
Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly challenge to write a 200-word story based on a photo prompt. Thanks to Al Forbes (A Mixed Bag) for providing this week’s challenging photo.
Redbuds and Roserocks 