Snow Not-An-Angel

I sit on their fireplace mantel, their darling little porcelain snow angel, but little do they know. I am no angel.

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Seven-year-old Trixie is the first one downstairs on Christmas morning. Even though she’s anxious to see what Santa brought, she’s also hungry, so she goes into the kitchen to get a bowl of cereal. Filling her bowl with Trix – her favorite because it’s named after her – she looks around the kitchen, avoiding looking in the living room, lest she see her gifts too soon. She’s funny like that; whereas most kids would peek, she doesn’t want to ruin the surprise.

Suddenly, she hears a noise. Putting the spoon down, she looks around, her blue eyes as big as the saucers in her mom’s cabinet. Seeing nothing, she shrugs then goes back to eating. She hears the noise again. She sits real still, trying to get a bead on where the noise is coming from. After a moment, she thinks it’s in the pantry. A mature seven-year-old, she figures she can handle it, so it doesn’t even occur to her to call for her parents.

Tiptoeing to the food storage closet, she puts her ear against it. Silence. Little Trixie hesitantly opens the pantry and sees an angel. She loves the little cartoon mascot for Heavenly Crunch cereal, but she doesn’t take the time to admire it right now.

Just as Trixie turns around, she hears the flapping of wings, but before she can react, the snow angel from her mantle has her down on the floor, sucking her essence through her still mouth. As she succumbs to the angel’s kiss of death, she looks into the angel’s eyes and sees hell.