Short Stories And Stuff

Sticky Windows

The first snowfall of the year came long after the Christmas lights, and the setting of the wreath, and the pushing-in of the tree—but it came, finally. Marcy watched it. She watched, tiny lights of wonder in her eyes, as snowflakes surfed down from the sky on invisible winds. They formed pillow-layer after pillow-layer. 

The street, from Marcy's bedroom window, was a gingerbread lane, the houses sweet things you tasted with your eyes. But as she watched the snow accumulate, minute-hour by minute-hour, thickening the street frosting, she felt a cold in the pit of her heart.

She was thinking of the crumbs at the bottom of the cake-pan, yesterday; she had scavenged for them when the after-cake craving for more struck. They had hints of icing on them, and they were small and fragile. They were delicious. And they ran out.

All things, Marcy thought, run out. Could the same be said for the snow? Could the tap that let it free just run out?

The snow fell steadily and seemed to blanket the pit of her heart with the weight of its white. Everything was white. Snow stuck to the window and everything was white. 

Better safe than sorry, Marcy thought.

She ran from her perch to get her orange snowsuit and her boots and her hat and her gloves. And a bucket.  

A big, adult-sized voice was calling out to her, but it was too cold to melt the crystals that had settled onto her skin, into her pores, into her nerves. She opened the door, a wind gale now, and fluttered out. Snow instantly welcomed her feet by clinging to them. 

Ah! 

The air was cutting. Almost instantly, pins materialized in the inner lining of her legs, small teeth that bit her when she moved. The wind, wild and thick, stuck snow to her cheeks and sawed through the space in-between her fingers. 

Better hurry, Marcy thought. 

The ice was clever. It hid underneath the thinnest layers of snow--the ones a heavy-enough boot could easily dislodge. It hid there and waited to trip you with its smooth skin. Marcy slid but caught herself. 

Better be careful, Marcy thought. 

The blue bucket's handle rested easily in her fingers. 

Better hurry, Marcy thought.

She crouched near a snowbank. 

Mrs. Johnson, shoveling out her driveway across the street, saw an orange figure with a fur hood face tear frantic, semi-solidified chunks out of a snowbank, making them vanish into a bucket. Not a moment later the figure was gone. 

In the foyer, Marcy lifted the bucket for inspection. The snow crystals,  white and pure. Like rice. 

Where to put them? Where to keep them safe? 

The fridge the fridge the fridge, Marcy thought. 

Lunchbox opened, filled with snow. Lunchbox inserted into the bright crater of the stainless steel fridge. Big cold voice upstairs, asking her to please stay inside. 

Her heart pounded thickly, seemed to sizzle, like meat in an oily pan. A rebellion was sparking inside her. She knew--it wasn't hard to know--that the big voices coming down the stairs couldn't possibly understand. 

All things ran out, Marcy knew. 

But nothing should run out! 

More, more, more! She needed to save as much snow as she could! 

Before it ran out! 

Mrs. Johnson noticed that the orange fur-face was back, on all animal fours in the snow. 

Filling a bucket. 

It's snowing like mad where I live. Got me wondering what would happen if the snow ran out...