I've got less than seven minutes to write a story. Possible?
(note: it took about fifteen minutes.)
(note2: I changed the ending from the stranger naming himself Jack. I think John is stronger and more subtle.)
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Margie stopped running a a few blocks from home. This was further than she'd been on her own, before, and it had just occurred to her how much trouble she was going to be in. Or, she though she knew. The real fear of child kidnapping was known only to her parents, and her punishment--if it had happened--would have been more than dinner without dessert.
She stood at the corner where the blue mailbox was, breathing hard and sobbing. When a low voice made throat clearing noises, she turned quickly, frightened.
He wasn't very tall, but wasn't short. He had a neatly trimmed beard that was beginning to go gray. He wore a dark, long jacket and an old fashioned hat.
"Too cold for you, young lady. And, your folks won't like you being this far from home. I'll walk you back."
He strode past her, exactly the way she'd come. She had to hurry to catch up.
"What," he rumbled, "are all those tears for?"
"My . . . my mommy and daddy say they won't get me the Rainbow Playset I asked for for Christmas."
"Oh? Why?"
Margie snuffled. "They said I hadn't been good enough, and that I hadn't cleaned my room like I said I would, and was too noisy at church."
"Hmm," said the stranger. "Hmm. Well. What do you think?"
"I tried to clean my room, and I put everything away, then I wanted to color and then mommy came in and got mad at me."
The tall-but-not-too-tall man nodded. "I see. And, were you a little noisy during the sermon?"
"I guess so, but it was going on so long!"
"Ah," chuckled the man. "They do that, sometimes."
"I want the Playset more than anything," declared Margie.
They had arrived at Margie's house. The man looked down at her and said gravely, "Anything? You want it more than your big sister, or your pet fish, or your daddy telling you stories, or your mommy taking you swimming?"
That made Margie feel funny. She wanted to say yes, and any other time she would have. But she didn't want to lie to this man.
"No. They're better than the Playset."
He smiled. "I agree. You're a smart little girl, and I think you just need to try again on your room. Will you do that?"
She nodded.
"Well, then. Let's dry that tear."
His forefinger moved smoothly and gently and stroked the tear away. He held his finger to his lips, breathed on it, and the tear turned to ice, fell off and tinkled on the concrete porch like a diamond.
"You go inside, now."
"Okay." She turned to go in, then turned back as he was walking toward to the street.
"What's you name?" asked Margie.
The man didn't turn, but his voice came back clearly. "It's John. But if we meet again, you should call me Mr. Frost."