Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. And Thus He Came: A Christmas Fantasy by Cyrus Townsend Brady (top books of all time txt) 📖
- Author: Cyrus Townsend Brady
Book online «And Thus He Came: A Christmas Fantasy by Cyrus Townsend Brady (top books of all time txt) 📖». Author Cyrus Townsend Brady
"Christmas morning," said the boy. "I wonder what they're doing at home."
"Overboard with you, youngster," said the signal lieutenant; "I wish I had a life-preserver for you, but—"
"Merry Christmas, sir," said the lad suddenly.
"Good God!" said the man. "Merry Christmas! They will think of us at home."
What was left of the ship gave a mighty reel.
"Quick or she'll suck you down," the officer roared, as he fairly flung the boy into the water,—and how he hurt that broken arm! "You can swim. Strike out. Good-by."
The boy had caught a glimpse of the captain standing on the bridge as the wreck went down and then the wild waters closed over his head. It was frightfully cold. A hard gale was blowing. The waves ran terribly high. His left arm was helpless. His head ached fiercely. What was the use? Still the boy struck out bravely with his free hand. The instinct of life! It was too dark to see. The sky was covered with drifting clouds. Only here and there a little rift of moonlight came through.
"Christmas morning," he sobbed out as the waves rolled him over. "Oh, my God!"
He felt himself going down. All at once the waters seemed to grow still. It was suddenly calm. He was no longer cold. He threw his head up for one last look at the sky and life and then he hung, as it were, suspended in some strange way. He saw a figure walking across the smooth of the seas as it had been solid ground. The figure drew nearer, the wind seemed to have died away, but the draperies that shrouded it swung gently as they would while a man walked along. The face he saw dimly, vaguely, but there was light in it somehow. It came slowly nearer.
"Christmas morning," whispered the boy.
The hand of the figure reached down. It caught the boy's right arm. He was lifted up.
"Home and Christmas morning," whispered the boy, closing his eyes.
The moonlight broke through a cloud and fell upon him. A wave rolled over him and the sea was empty as before.
He that hath eyes to see, let him see!
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