TENTACLES
It was a long day at the office. I stumbled out through the doors, after a day of mind-numbing mediocrity, and into the face numbing chill of November. It was cold, and oh so not cool. It was a brisk walk, hands curled deep in pockets like a pair of sleepign cats trying to keep warm. I could feel the hot burn of winter on my cheeks, forehead, and ears; I could feel the wind's cold carress slipping slowly up the rear of my jacket.
I trudhe onward and within 25 minutes, am greeted by the welcome site of my home and the door that will admit me into the warmth of my haven. It was a very happy moment.
I slid out of my coat and made my way straight to the kitchen where I turned on the oven and got ready to prepare dinner. I was chopping some celery and onions and had a pot full of water slowly boiling to life on the stovetop when I first felt the presence. It was like a cold whisper on the back of my neck.
I paused for a moment and listened, but all I could hear was the slow roil of the water on the stove next to me.
I resumed the chopping for a moment, but I could not shake the feeling. The cold tickle rose up my neck and through my hair. Finally, I turned to scan the kitchen behind me and noticed the icy tentacles slowly reaching towards me from the back door.
Confused, and scared, I swiped at it with the knife I had been using to chop the vegetabbles. The end of the tentacles fell off and shattered across the floor with a crystalline twinkling. The tentacles wilted back, seeming to shrink back towards the cold outside.
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