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He sat atop a hill near the town, looking it over in the way he had. It wasn’t quite a sneer, but most folks would say it was. He was watching the soft white tufts as they floated quietly down on the burg, blanketing it. It was a light falling, building up only about 1/8 inch an hour or so. He smiled quietly to himself, the sneer growing more pronounced. It etched into his long face.
“Yep. Soft white beautiful flakes. So innocent. Let’s see what they think of it in about 90 days!” He laughed. “Gotta live up to my name!”
Word Count: 100
Photo Credit to Sarah Potter for this week’s Friday Fictioneers.
*Unfortunately, I missed this one. So, here it is, late, but still…
Namaste,
Scott
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