'Twas Christmas Eve'
Placed 3rd in the 2014 Thurrock Writers' Circle Christmas Short Story competition.
The light from the landing softly glowed through into Mark’s darkened bedroom. No matter how hard he tried Mark was too excited to go to sleep. Tonight Father Christmas was coming. He had even shut his eyes tightly which was no help at all; it only made his face crinkle up. Restlessly he threw back his duvet, crawled down the bed and knelt beside the window pulling back the curtain. Sighing he stared out of the window. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside. There was the familiar outline of the large barn in the field next to his house where the gentle cows belonging to Farmer Wilson were kept; now safe and warm inside. As he continued to look out Mark remembered his school teacher telling the class about a legend that at midnight every Christmas Eve animals knelt down in their stables like in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago.
Close to the barn was the farmhouse and Mark saw bright lights streaming from the windows and several cars parked in the driveway. Then he began to think the barn was so near and if he took his torch he could go and watch Farmer Wilson’s cows kneeling down at midnight. He jumped down from the bed and found his torch on the bookshelf. Putting on his warm dressing gown and slippers he then tucked the torch inside his pocket. Quietly he crept down the stairs and tiptoed past the closed door of the lounge where his mother and father were watching television. Reaching the kitchen he opened the back door and stepped outside into the chilly night air. Pulling the torch from his pocket Mark pushed down the button and switched it on. He ran down the garden path following the bobbing beam of light until he reached a small gap in the high wooden fence. He squeezed through and stood for a second on the other side listening to the lively music and laughter coming from the farmhouse. He broke into a run along the wide gravel path to the barn door. Carefully he placed the torch down onto the ground to put his two small hands underneath the wooden latch and gave it a firm push upwards. With a clunk the large door swung open. Retrieving his torch Mark went into the barn lighting up the inky darkness inside. The pungent smell of cows mixed with fragrant meadow hay made a bitter sweet combination. The animals exposed by the torch’s glare were standing in their individual stalls chewing languidly on tufts of hay. Momentarily startled by the intrusion they lifted their large heads to investigate but then turned away to resume their slow rhythmic munching.
Disappointed Mark stared at the upright cows. He supposed it was not yet midnight so the best thing to do was to wait. He hoped it would not take too long as the coldness from the stone floor was going through his slippers. Hopping up and down in an effort to keep his feet warm he made sure that the torch was clutched safely in his hand. Tiredness began to overtake him so he looked around for somewhere to sit down. Nearby was a bale of straw but as he moved forward he did not see the thick piece of rope coiled on the ground. The unexpected unevenness beneath his feet made Mark pitch forward and fall down heavily onto both of his knees. The hard flagstones cut into his skin while the torch fell from his grasp and dropped to the floor, its light still shining. He grabbed hold of the torch and stood up looking down at his legs. Small spots of blood began to appear on the material of his pyjamas. He started to cry softly. He wanted his mother because she always made everything right again. His tears began to flow faster.
The sound of heavy footsteps came from outside the barn. Mark peered nervously at the doorway. His eyes, blurred from crying, widened with delighted surprise. Before him holding a torch stood the burly figure of Father Christmas dressed in a bright red jacket and trousers. His whiskers and long beard were very white.
“Well. Who have we got here then? It’s Mark isn’t it?” asked his kindly voice.
“I’ve come to see the animals kneel,” Mark blurted out shyly, forgetting his injured knees. He looked up at the figure towering about him and, with the innocence of a child, did not see Farmer Wilson behind the false whiskers who had come from the fancy dress party at the farmhouse to get more bottles of wine stored in the cool barn.
Tenderly the farmer picked up the child in his strong arms and saw the complete trust in the small face. Gently he said, “Come on Mark. Let’s take you home. You must be very tired and your mother will be worried about you.”
As they went outside into the night the first soft flakes of snow began to fall against their faces. Mark nestled his sleepy head against the reassuring soft fabric of the red jacket and whispered quietly, “Father Christmas did you get the letter I sent to you?”
Back inside, the barn once again plunged into darkness. One by one the cows first kneeled on their front legs then lowered themselves down on to the straw to rest for the night.
Placed 3rd in the 2014 Thurrock Writers' Circle Christmas Short Story competition.
The light from the landing softly glowed through into Mark’s darkened bedroom. No matter how hard he tried Mark was too excited to go to sleep. Tonight Father Christmas was coming. He had even shut his eyes tightly which was no help at all; it only made his face crinkle up. Restlessly he threw back his duvet, crawled down the bed and knelt beside the window pulling back the curtain. Sighing he stared out of the window. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness outside. There was the familiar outline of the large barn in the field next to his house where the gentle cows belonging to Farmer Wilson were kept; now safe and warm inside. As he continued to look out Mark remembered his school teacher telling the class about a legend that at midnight every Christmas Eve animals knelt down in their stables like in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago.
Close to the barn was the farmhouse and Mark saw bright lights streaming from the windows and several cars parked in the driveway. Then he began to think the barn was so near and if he took his torch he could go and watch Farmer Wilson’s cows kneeling down at midnight. He jumped down from the bed and found his torch on the bookshelf. Putting on his warm dressing gown and slippers he then tucked the torch inside his pocket. Quietly he crept down the stairs and tiptoed past the closed door of the lounge where his mother and father were watching television. Reaching the kitchen he opened the back door and stepped outside into the chilly night air. Pulling the torch from his pocket Mark pushed down the button and switched it on. He ran down the garden path following the bobbing beam of light until he reached a small gap in the high wooden fence. He squeezed through and stood for a second on the other side listening to the lively music and laughter coming from the farmhouse. He broke into a run along the wide gravel path to the barn door. Carefully he placed the torch down onto the ground to put his two small hands underneath the wooden latch and gave it a firm push upwards. With a clunk the large door swung open. Retrieving his torch Mark went into the barn lighting up the inky darkness inside. The pungent smell of cows mixed with fragrant meadow hay made a bitter sweet combination. The animals exposed by the torch’s glare were standing in their individual stalls chewing languidly on tufts of hay. Momentarily startled by the intrusion they lifted their large heads to investigate but then turned away to resume their slow rhythmic munching.
Disappointed Mark stared at the upright cows. He supposed it was not yet midnight so the best thing to do was to wait. He hoped it would not take too long as the coldness from the stone floor was going through his slippers. Hopping up and down in an effort to keep his feet warm he made sure that the torch was clutched safely in his hand. Tiredness began to overtake him so he looked around for somewhere to sit down. Nearby was a bale of straw but as he moved forward he did not see the thick piece of rope coiled on the ground. The unexpected unevenness beneath his feet made Mark pitch forward and fall down heavily onto both of his knees. The hard flagstones cut into his skin while the torch fell from his grasp and dropped to the floor, its light still shining. He grabbed hold of the torch and stood up looking down at his legs. Small spots of blood began to appear on the material of his pyjamas. He started to cry softly. He wanted his mother because she always made everything right again. His tears began to flow faster.
The sound of heavy footsteps came from outside the barn. Mark peered nervously at the doorway. His eyes, blurred from crying, widened with delighted surprise. Before him holding a torch stood the burly figure of Father Christmas dressed in a bright red jacket and trousers. His whiskers and long beard were very white.
“Well. Who have we got here then? It’s Mark isn’t it?” asked his kindly voice.
“I’ve come to see the animals kneel,” Mark blurted out shyly, forgetting his injured knees. He looked up at the figure towering about him and, with the innocence of a child, did not see Farmer Wilson behind the false whiskers who had come from the fancy dress party at the farmhouse to get more bottles of wine stored in the cool barn.
Tenderly the farmer picked up the child in his strong arms and saw the complete trust in the small face. Gently he said, “Come on Mark. Let’s take you home. You must be very tired and your mother will be worried about you.”
As they went outside into the night the first soft flakes of snow began to fall against their faces. Mark nestled his sleepy head against the reassuring soft fabric of the red jacket and whispered quietly, “Father Christmas did you get the letter I sent to you?”
Back inside, the barn once again plunged into darkness. One by one the cows first kneeled on their front legs then lowered themselves down on to the straw to rest for the night.