The Wooden Horse

                The snow fell slowly on the abandoned streets. The night as dark as coal, the only source of light coming from the lampposts, shining gentle, golden light on the cobblestones beneath. The only being left on the street was a boy, carrying a bucket of water to his home. Dark brown hair fell in front of this dirty face. He grimaced as he felt hunger gnaw at his stomach.

                He slowed as he neared the toy shop. Many beautiful displays were set up in the window. Bright red nutcrackers, magnificently painted dolls, and intricately detailed toy trains were all meticulously set up, trying to lure the children into begging their parents for such luxuries.

                But the boy wanted none of them.

                The toy that the boy wanted was set in the corner of the window, dusty and forgotten. It was a simple carved horse, its rough surface lacking any of the bright colors the other toys carried. Despite its simplicity, the boy knew he couldn’t buy it. He didn’t have enough money. The store was closed tonight, besides.

                He started walking again, his eyes lingering on the toy. He realized how late he must be, and began to run, not noticing the shadow following him.

                When the boy reached the house, he set down the bucket of partially-frozen water and tried to open the thick, wooden door, only to discover it was locked. He beat upon it, crying and pleading to be let in, only to be answered with rebuke for his unpunctuality. He slowly sunk down onto the step, sobbing and pulling his thin, woolen coat closer around him, trying to ignore the needles of cold that sharply punctured his hands and face.

                He heard a soft creak behind him, and turned to see the door standing ajar. He stood up and walked in, closing his eyes in relief as he felt the warmth melt the pain from his body.

                He was then greeted strong strike against his spine, and a room full of angry faces. The faces belonged to the family that reluctantly took him in when he was abandoned on their doorstep at birth, a family who would not believe he wasn’t the one who opened the door, no matter how desperate his cries of denial became. The father struck him with the wooden rod fifteen more times, ignoring the screams and tears that came from the boy. The father then sent him up to the attic.

                The boy shivered as he entered the attic’s single room, feeling the icy breeze that came from the lone window, a window with no glass pane. His heart dropped as he heard the lock click behind him, and slowly sat down on the old, splintery wood floor. He closed his eyes, trying to not pay to the cold that shook his body and rattled his teeth, begging to be noticed.

                Suddenly he felt a strange warmth come over him. He could feel transparent arms holding him, pulling him closer. He stopped shivering as the warmth reached the innermost marrow of his bones. He stayed quiet, listening to the silent sound of an unbeating heart.

                He gently opened his eyes to discover the wooden horse standing not two feet from where he sat. He let out a small gasp, blinking to make sure he was not dreaming. When he opened his eyes, however, the horse was gone.

                He sighed. He knew such a simple gift was too remarkable, too miraculous to appear before his eyes. He must have been hallucinating, dreams given to him by such desperate wishing. Looking down in sorrow, the boy could feel the arms gently remove themselves from him. Shivering as he felt the blanket of cold surround him once again, he looked back toward the source of the cold; the window. There was something on the pane. Squinting in the dark, he could make out the distinct shape of the wooden horse once again. He slowly stood up and walked to the window. As he reached the window, he felt the arms gently holding him once more.

               

Suddenly he felt his stomach wrench as he was shoved out the window. Ice cold shards of fear pricked his entire body. He closed his eyes before his entire world went pitch black.

 

*                             *                             *

 

                His body was found the next morning, Christmas Day. There were no marks on his body other than the ones given to him from his fall. No disturbances in the dust in the attic or snow down below were found other than his own. And the only object that was found with the body, held in his arms, was a simple, wooden carved horse.

Reviews

[John Sharp]

Nice although i think this is a short story and not a book chapter. I like the description of the horse and the warm arms that embraced him. Just one thing i noticed was this sentence
'He was then greeted strong strike against his spine, and a room full of angry faces'

It through me off for a second, might need minor change