Last Christmas…and the Christmas before that….and the one before it, these were the stories. They might be better than this one:
Happy holidays & a Merry Christmas! Xx
Before dinner on Christmas Day, the children of the Flinchers, Milly and Anthony began a simple game of snow angel making in the front yard.
Patrick Flincher, their father, had decided that in these final days of 2016 he would be a risk taker. He would “go for it” and live dangerously, thus becoming one of the cool dads. Christmas didn’t frighten him this year – no giant spiders, no Neon Santa, no ghosts in the supermarket would put him down and make him shun the Christmas spirit away. He had convinced the rest of the Flinchers that giving in to the festivity was a great idea.
So while he was reclining brazenly with his much deserved cup of eggnog and Mrs. Flincher was putting the turkey in the oven, the children accepting their father’s new found motto of Christmas bravery, competed out of breath forgetting all the past horrortales they had lived through.
Milly and Anthony decided the traditional snow angel was a bore to make so instead they began building an angel out of ice. There was plenty of that hidden underneath the heaps of snow.
“It doesn’t look like an angel,” Anthony complained staring at the misshapen figure in the middle of the yard.
“Yes it does,” his sister protested. “This is its left wing and this, its right. And this is its gown.” On the thin ice pieces, jagged and uneven protruding flat from its blocky body, Milly scattered the snow she had gathered in her gloved palms. It stuck to the transparent surface and became one with it. Milly scooped more snow and scattered it generously again and again and again until the wings such as they were and the blocky body already wearing a skirt of dulled snow at its base were nearly white and semi-translucent.
“But we don’t have a head!” Anthony protested as he was shaking off the snow from his hat.
Milly skipped and slid through the yard and kicked here and there for hidden ice while her brother laughed and poorly sang a quickly made up song of her futile task. Her boot however connected with one of the rainwater pipes and while she whimpered in pain, the pipe rattled spitting out a halo of ice with its stalactite icicles. Milly picked it up and examined how symmetrical and smooth it was. She then skipped back to her angel sculpture and carefully placed the halo on the top of the statue. Now it had two long and one short icicles for a beard and a transparent face through which light could shine. But it was missing something. Milly snatched her brother’s hat and placed it atop the halo.
“It’ll melt,” he murmured thinking the angel was too girly even with his hat on. It was small and odd with a head without a face, chipped wings that would break in the wind, no hands or legs and a skirt made of hard snow. It looked like nothing. Milly was thrilled by their creation. She stared at it for the longest time when Mrs. Flincher called them inside for dinner. She was quite proud of their ice angel.
Later that evening, the ice angel hopped on the rooftop of the Flincher house and sat there contemplating why the children had neglected to give it arms. It was in a desperate need to light a smoke and melt its head off and be done with this “alive with the spirit of Christmas” ordeal. It could only slightly play with the hat the girl had given him by poking at the fluffy ball hanging on its tip with its icicles. The angel could hear the Flinchers still talking down in the house and instead busied itself with their conversation.
“What is it, Mr. Flincher?” Mrs. Flincher was asking.
“There’s a snowman staring at me. Look, just across the street. It’s grinning!”
There was a rustle and the large living room curtain was pulled.
“We should run, shouldn’t we?” Mrs. Flincher was whispering.
Mr. Flincher snorted. “Nonsense. Don’t be silly, I’m being silly. It’s just a regular, ol’ snowman that someone built…”
The angel stood on the edge of the rooftop looking about the place. It could just make out a large form across the street where the forest began. It counted three balls, one large, one medium, one small and could just see the beady dark eyes reflecting the street lamp in a fiery orange. Father Flincher was wrong, the angel knew it. The snowman wasn’t just any snowman. It was alive with the spirit of Christmas but in a reverse way, the bad way. It had left a trail behind it when that big bottom ball of ice and horror had rolled the snowman through the forest and to the front yard of the Flinchers to grin at them.
“Well I bet…I bet I can go out there and tell him to be on his way and wish him a happy Christmas,” Mr. Flincher was saying. The angel could hear the tremble in his voice.
Mrs. Flincher tutted. It was a loud tut. “Do you really think you’ll scare him Mr. Flincher and he’ll just burst into a million tiny snowflakes?”
The ice angel decided it would like to see that. It hopped down from the rooftop and flapped its stiff uneven wings into the darkness outside of the perimeter shined by yellow, red, blue and green Christmas lights. It glided above the snowman and ducked in the shadows behind it. It could barely contain its laughter.
In minutes Mr. Flincher left the house carrying a steaming pot with his Santa Claus mitts. He slid and slipped sloshing boiling water that hissed and made holes in the snow.
The snowman, the leer on his plump face gone after seeing the approaching danger, tried to roll back the way it had come but something blocked its way. Angrily the snowman spun his head around and sharp toothed looked down at the angel with its sharp icicle beard. The snowman roared and thrust his full weight at the tiny angel. Its wing broke and its base cracked underneath the snow coat but it stood its icy ground and poked the giant creature with its icicles.
Patrick Flincher came just on time to throw the boiling water at the snowman’s face. It shrieked and started grabbing chunks of its melting face with thin wooden hands and tried to put them back blindly, but the snow turned to water and it drooled through its core collapsing the snowman ball by ball. The angel dragged itself out of the rubble but it too had met with the boiling water and had melted halfway.
“Thank you little ice angel. For not trying to kill me that is. And for helping.”
The ice angel managed a nod with its broken halo head before it too collapsed to nothing but jagged pieces of ice.
Patrick bent down and picked Anthony’s hat patting off bits of ice and layers of snow off of it. He had survived yet another Christmas and he had been brazen about it, though running through his yard in his slippers with Santa mitts and a pot of hot water was an image far away from looking like a heroic one. He could now add to the list of supernatural Christmas disasters an abominable snowman and a headless ice angel, though the latter had actually tried to help him. He had Milly and Anthony to thank for that. Also he had to explain why their ice angel was gone.