Word Count: 440
Flashy Frozen Friction Featuring Fantastic Fantasy
By Maggie Robertson
The day was bright and sparkly, and bracingly cold. The trees shimmered with Nature’s own decorations. Wind howled bitterly, with each gust raining twig-studded diamonds onto the amalgam of ice and powder that painted the world white.
It was April.
Spring waited, still coiled beneath the frost in corms and roots and seeds tentatively reaching upward, like a timid child who is not quite sure he has the correct answer.
The Winged Ones were returning, daring Winter to stay in their midst. First the Honking Ones, floating South to North across the valley. Then the Soaring Ones, silently watching from above. Now the Twittering Ones, flitting from frozen branch to frozen branch, filling the frigid mornings with Nature’s music, and adding a flash of color here and there. As if the beating wings were blowing warmth into the valley, the white gave way to brown.
April was till wearing March’s clothing when she saw Winter walking down the street toward her, his icy stare daring her to show a little sunshine and warmth. Snow Faeries descended lightly from the still-bare trees, dancing and swirling behind Winter’s arrogance, entreating the silver-grey sky to release the rest of their troupe.
Wind rolled into the valley in a fickle fury. Wind didn’t choose sides, instead he embraced chaos and uncertainty. Sometimes Wind aided the ones in power, and other times sided with the rebellion. This time, Wind was bitter and cold, but even so, April knew from experience to never curse Wind. (One Spring she had, so he stopped blowing. Relentless heat seared her soul and melted her spirit to a puddle.)
April stood her ground. Secretly, she had a crush on Winter, falling for his aloof “bad-boy” persona. She sought excuses to keep him around, turning off Sun’s alarm clock, and scheduling out-of-town meetings for May. She slipped posies into his pockets, small white and blue blossoms that were delicate in appearance, but held forth against his seeming indifference. She found herself inviting him into her home.
Winter, seeing an opportunity for conquest, was all too willing to accept April’s proposition. He slipped into her bed, sending chills of anticipation between the sheets. Their tryst raged night and day for weeks, tumbling blankets of snow with sheets of rain. Wind and the Winged Ones provided their music that was at once tumultuous and titillating, the friction between them egging on the Lovers to each reach the heights of their own soul-bending ecstasy.
One morning, April awoke and knew she had had enough. Handing Winter his cloak she whispered “It’s not you, it’s me” and pushed him out the door.