Put some ice on that eye, Ralphie.

Nothing gleamed quite as majestically as my Red Ryder on X-mas morning. Not even the remnants of the Old Man's major award could compare. Despite my excitement, I was steady as I aimed Ol' Blue at the target, envisioning Black Bart quaking at the end of my barrel.

"Okay, Black Bart, now you get yours," I declared, but before I squeezed the trigger, a creaking sound caught my attention.

The *creak* turned to a *crack* and I looked up just in time to see the icicle wobble. It broke free of the garage like a crystal kamikaze and knocked me to the ground, still clutching Ol' Blue.

The Old Man had turkey breath when he leaned over the hospital bed, but I was glad to see him. I was glad to see anything, even without binocular vision. I guess that eye was just destined to go.

"Oh Ralphie, I'm so glad you're alright," my mother cried. "Those icicles have been known to kill people!"

I was lucky. So was Black Bart. He got away that time and I'd let him. From that day on, my Red Ryder would be devoted to ridding the world of evil icicles. Luckily, it had a compass in the stock. So, look out, icicles! Once I'm out of the hospital, you're totally fudged.

THE END

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