The snow falls in its flurries, kissing the ground with its icy touch. Lizzie is parked at the window, watching the blizzard raging outside- hoping that the snow will carry on until Devon comes to a standstill and school is closed. The next day is a Monday… the worst day of all. A whole hour slogging over division problems with ‘The Cyclops’ (everyone in year six is convinced Miss Munt has a glass eye!) followed by a shouting session from Mr. Baldwick throughout English literature. But, the worst part of the day is break-time. A whole twenty minutes of playground taunts and cruel remarks about her every move. It was Veronica who started it, Veronica Sprockley the headmaster’s daughter was a goody-goody and school bully all merged into one horrible, spoilt, precocious little girl.
“Hey, look… busy Lizzies at it again!” she shouts across the playground.
“She must be a witch!” Ruth joins in the taunt. Lizzie wasn’t a witch, she just had a way of… disappearing during break hours, often to a quiet corner of the playground where she could read her book and keep away from the other children. The other children though, came up with the fantasy that Lizzie was a witch after Veronica had crept up on her humming a strange tune by herself, Veronica had then got everyone believing that Lizzie was chanting rituals for witchy reasons.
Lizzie sighs as the snow begins to thin and the heavy flakes get smaller and smaller. There is just enough of the white stuff on the ground to make a snowman; she considers the thought before hurrying down the stairs, grapping her coat and mittens on the way. Mum is glued to the Weather forecast, not even batting an eyelid as Lizzie charges through the kitchen door in her haste to get outside and enjoy what snow there is. The ‘snowman’ doesn’t go to plan; it begins to resemble something more like an animal than anything human! As it begins to get dark Lizzie finds herself not really paying attention to what she’s doing, patting a bit of snow on here, slapping a handful there, shaping two large ears with her bare hands and giving the face an angled fierce look. She finds a piece of charcoal and wedges it in place to serve as a nose. Small twigs make whiskers on either side of the face and two more pieces of coal for dark, shadowy eyes.
It's begun to snow again, large flakes swirling out of the darkness. It's getting cold, Lizzie steps back from her handiwork, still not quite sure what the animal is. Mum beckons at the window that it's time to come inside. The warmth embraces her as she steps into the house cheeks rosy.
It's now 12:00, Lizzie can’t sleep. A tingling sensation draws her to the window, the ice tiger turns his magnificent head so he's looking right at her. Maybe Lizzie is a witch, of a sort.
