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Frost settled on the windows. The puffs of smoke from the little cottages and the smell of gingerbread filled the air. The snow fell steadily.
At the rattle of each carriage, the little girl imagined Santa.
She had woven her own stockings from pieces of leftover wool and had strung it up on the window with a peg.
There was no light, no tree, no carol in the broken house. Her stomach rumbled with hunger, remembering the scrap she'd scavenge from the dump yard.
She curled up in her torn rug, dreaming of Santa with loads of food.
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Threading Yarns
Fantasía#4 in aimtoengage #64 in Fantasy.. Want to get a collection of stories in all genres, of varied tasted and interests? Here are the yarns of stories I weave... A unique collection of 500 words one-shots of different tastes for the #aimtoengage conte...
