Jack stole the old rusty key down from the warped, wooden mantel that framed the fire place, where dying flames danced atop glowing embers. He hugged the key to his chest, glancing furtively around while the old house creaked and sighed, slipping comfortably into the night and sleep. Silence fell all about and Jack could now hear his own breath escaping fast, in short rasps. His heart played percussion in double time as he wondered at his bravado. His parents had retired an hour since and were well into their journey to dreamland (or so he hoped). Darkness enveloped his small frame as he danced slowly around the family's magnificently set dining table. He moved through the house and with greater caution into the kitchen, fearing the kind but defeating hand of his father on his shoulder, thankfully the halting touch never came. Slowly he released his over protective grip on the key, raising it to the lock of the old solid oak door, which stood between this sanctuary and the wilds of the world. His brazenness at what he was about to do fired his mood, till his fear was replaced by the sheer joy of what tomorrow would bring.

The key slide into the lock, despite his unsteady movements and turned with ease, freeing the bolt, which seemed to echo canon like around the house; forcing him to catch his breath. He fell quickly against the door as though to soak up the sound, prevent further dispersal which might awake the sleeping. No noise from the floor above.   No footsteps placed themselves upon the stairs.

Some moments passed and Jack realised the canon had been little more than a pop gun to anyone but himself. He began to back away from the door and move at a steady but quiet pace until reaching the foot of the creaky staircase. With a cat like prance, dancing back and forth to avoid the steps he knew would be all too eager to herald his devious plan, he swiftly ascended the stairs, without a single creak.

Back beneath the safety of his worn warm blankets. Tucked up against the winter’s cold. Jack reflected on his wreckless actions and wondered at what would occur, if he failed to arise first the following morn. He would need to be the first to reach the kitchen door, in order to secure it again, so that no one would suspect his part in the events that were about to unfold.

He recalled the heated conversation he had shared with his father a few hours hence - how his father had refused to douse the dying flames, preferring instead to tolerate their fading but unpredictable dance - and how disheartened, earlier that evening, he had climbed weary to his bed.

What if these flames, their festive spirits heightened, refused to die down in time?

Jack could not risk such an occurrence and so had devised his bold plan. And now, with every detail in place, he drifted contently, despite all of his excitement, into a gleeful sleep. For tomorrow was Christmas Day.



© Susan Sheen, 2007 (all rights reserved)