Sunday Photo Fiction 12-19-2017

220 12 December 17th 2017


He’d been walking forever, carrying his bed-roll, sack at his side. Had ceased to wonder why he’d been cast in the role of a hobo. Wasn’t a normal occupation for a snowman.  Look at Frosty. But then, he wasn’t Frosty. Wasn’t even of the same snow.

The world shook and the snow started to fly, distorted face starting down at him from above.

He’d gotten used to that, too, though he still didn’t like being watched, not even by the huge Snowman in the sky. Watching for what, he didn’t know or care.

He just carried his bed-roll and sack, and walked. Waddled really, not having feet.

Damn Frosty. Couldn’t the Big Guy have given him shiny black boots, too?

As snow slowly settling around him, the world gave another jerk, a tilt and then he, and the world, were falling.  Exploding. He found himself lying on his back, world draining away around him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Johnny! Look what you did. You broke the globe! How many times….”

Sweeping up the mess, Mother tossed the shattered remains into the trash bin.

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