The Night After Christmas
Copyright 2011 John Hulme
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It was the night after Christmas when the snow and the temperature finally stopped falling. High on the hillside, a stiff walk beyond the narrow road that turned off the side road that twisted away from the rural road that came indirectly from the nearest township, Ellen picked up her three-legged dog, Fergus, and looked out of the window of her tiny farmhouse. Idly scratching the appreciative animal behind a slightly chewed ear, she watched the full moon finally reappear through the last flurry of snowflakes and cast its silver light once more upon her small corner of this very wide world.
Not that there was much to see at the moment. Everything was white and smooth. Even the wood and tall trees at the end of her property blended seamlessly into the pasture land before it and the huge drifts of snow, blown up the hill by the vicious wind banked against the scrub oak and native pines forming one continuous, undulating and indistinguishable mass of deep, deep frozen nothingness.