The Night Before Christmas
All the houses on the street were as silent as death. One by one, pinpricks of light turned from warm yellow to cold, icy black, Children dreamed of strawberry flavoured candy canes and presents as tall as them. Adults had Christmas dinner on their minds, and the delicious smell of it came with. They kn ew that, of course, Christmas would come. There would be presents. There would be half-eaten carrots and mince pie crumbs.
Wouldn't there?
The girl hugged her knees to her chest. Her ragged breathing was slowly replaced by muffled sobs. It had been one year on this very evening when her father - a big, jolly man - had slipped out of the world. She was the only one left now. She was also the only one to know about his passing. But tomorrow...everyone would know. They would go through the same stages as her: confusion, anger, denial, sorrow, and finally acceptance. The man they had come to love, the founder of festivities, Father Christmas himself. He was dead.
The girl wept for a long time. He can't be dead. He couldn't. But he was. She remembered his laugh perfectly - the way his eyes wrinkled, the way his belly rumbled. She also remembered that it was Christmas Day tomorrow. But she couldn't be happy. Not when he was gone.
"But what about the rest of the world?" she thought. She couldn't let them down. Peering through the frosted window, she watched the elves tottering around and loading the sleigh. Santa or no Santa - they didn't care. The memory of father playing leap frog with the elves suddenly popping into her mind gave her the strange desire to laugh.
Then she realised. It was the blurred shapes suddenly coming into focus. Christmas wasn't all about her father. It was about enjoying yourself - giving to others and getting things back. It was about family, but also so much more. The rest of the world. Everyone. They needed something too. That was why her father had delivered presents to them - every year - without fail. And she needed to do that too.
Mind made up, she shrugged on her warm fur coat, gloves, scarf, and hat, and dashed outside. The sleigh was waiting for her. She grabbed the reins and soon, they were soaring high above the clouds. And, for the first time in a year, Lily smiled.
Jessica
Year 8
Wouldn't there?
The girl hugged her knees to her chest. Her ragged breathing was slowly replaced by muffled sobs. It had been one year on this very evening when her father - a big, jolly man - had slipped out of the world. She was the only one left now. She was also the only one to know about his passing. But tomorrow...everyone would know. They would go through the same stages as her: confusion, anger, denial, sorrow, and finally acceptance. The man they had come to love, the founder of festivities, Father Christmas himself. He was dead.
The girl wept for a long time. He can't be dead. He couldn't. But he was. She remembered his laugh perfectly - the way his eyes wrinkled, the way his belly rumbled. She also remembered that it was Christmas Day tomorrow. But she couldn't be happy. Not when he was gone.
"But what about the rest of the world?" she thought. She couldn't let them down. Peering through the frosted window, she watched the elves tottering around and loading the sleigh. Santa or no Santa - they didn't care. The memory of father playing leap frog with the elves suddenly popping into her mind gave her the strange desire to laugh.
Then she realised. It was the blurred shapes suddenly coming into focus. Christmas wasn't all about her father. It was about enjoying yourself - giving to others and getting things back. It was about family, but also so much more. The rest of the world. Everyone. They needed something too. That was why her father had delivered presents to them - every year - without fail. And she needed to do that too.
Mind made up, she shrugged on her warm fur coat, gloves, scarf, and hat, and dashed outside. The sleigh was waiting for her. She grabbed the reins and soon, they were soaring high above the clouds. And, for the first time in a year, Lily smiled.
Jessica
Year 8
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