We’d been too busy to notice, we said later, even though we crossed the village green every day.
Some days it had faced south, sometimes east, occasionally west.
But we only remembered that when someone said “Hey, shouldn’t that thing have melted by now?”
That morning, when it turned northwards, a group of us approached for a closer look. We prodded it; solid ice, despite the first benevolent spring breezes stirring the trees.
“Let’s get the snow-plough,” said one neighbour. But by the time we returned, the snowman had vanished.
And so had every child who lived in our village.
Hardly a literary masterpiece, but when there’s a story to be told, sometimes there’s not enough words left for the ‘literary’ touches. 🙂 Thanks to Rochelle for all her work on Friday Fictioneers.