(In my opinion, one of the most crappy stories that i have wrote. I wrote this during November of 2010, Back when my writing skills were not as "developed" as they are now, i suppose.)
Winter began to grow more violent in November of 1985. Tom was scheduled to arrive home this evening, in the middle of a snow storm.
I sat on the couch with Puck resting on my lap, watching the fire sway inside the stone fireplace. The house was illuminated with Cinnamon and apple scented candles; the storm had knocked out the power. The house was silent, despite the sound of the cracking fire. I held a glass mug up to my lips, sipping the hot chocolate carefully to avoid burning my tongue. Beneath Puck was a blanket that i had bought during a trip through New Mexico a few years prior. My body was warm and the relaxing environment of my home made me calm.
My eyes shifted to the grandfather clock beside the staircase. The time was 9:30 P.M.
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