Fiction Short Story

The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Lisa Tate

Blip

Deep in the sub-zero nub of the coldest place on earth where glaciers stand like giants frozen in time, Winter lay in his bed studying the neat row of tiny, even lines scratched on the wall near his pillow. The days of his life measured out like this, exactly the same from end to end and not a blip on the horizon.

And yet as usual, he sat up, stretched and got out of bed. He made himself a cold bowl of oatmeal, then stood in front of the mirror and finger-combed his gold hair and rubbed the sleep out of his icy blue eyes. As usual. He pulled on his snowshoes, shrugged on his greatcoat, settled his hat on his head and stepped outside of his house, blowing and stamping.

The sun glittered off the ice, hard and bright as a laser, zeroing into his skull. As usual.

Hoping that a bit of fresh air would shake off his moodiness, he took off, riding a chill wind that bucked wildly and had a vicious bite. He rocked through the frozen landscape, etching windows with icy fingers, stopping engines, squeezing pipes until they burst. And amidst the minor chaos of his activities (those required by federal law), a small but disquieting thought crept into his mind.

It wasn’t satisfying anymore.

He hung icicles from the gutters, then broke them up and re-hung them in a jagged, natural line. He laid huge drifts of snow and ran the crazed wind over them at breakneck pace, leaving undulating sculptures in his wake. But somehow, it wasn’t as fun as it had been.

That bothered him.

He tossed handfuls of snow from the tip of the Eiger so they caught the wind and glittered in the sun. He roared through the mountain passes with a great howling bellow and then kicked off a couple of avalanches in the Himalayas. It was no use.

It wasn’t enough anymore. Everything had a gray tick-tock sameness to it, even making snowflakes, his specialty. He gave it up and just dumped loads of sleet. Hail appealed no longer.

The ping was gone.

When he was hungry, he sat down and drank a cold clear mountain stream and ate a quantity of clouds and frowned and wondered if he was sick, or losing his mind or both.

Gloom settled on his shoulders.

Then a pair of snow geese flew by, obviously together. Content. Their wings moved in tandem as they sailed through a breathlessly clear sky. Mightily fulfilled, those birds looked, though not in any way smug.

And Winter was broadsided by a revelation, ka-boom. What he needed was a wife.

His longing was so intense it nearly knocked him down.

With a fresh eager enthusiasm he worked his way through the afternoon on a big, showy project, bound to attract the eye of any lady. He used the whole sky. By nightfall it was ready. He put on a light show, and waited, a big happy grin on his face.

But nobody came. No one went out at night anymore. They had central heating.

Okay, he thought. Not to despair. If they don’t come to me, I will go to them. So, cheerful and determined once more, he headed for the city. Ladies, here I am. Winter, il est arrivé.

He imagined he’d be welcome.

He found a lady. She had a cell phone and a pair of stunningly expensive shoes and a serious brief case. He introduced himself very politely. But his cold hands made her shiver. And his crystal blue eyes made her scream. Loudly. And when the same thing happened again and again he realized he’d made a horrible mistake. He swirled off into the night feeling foolish. A few wistful snowflakes eddied behind him, remembering the good times.

Night turned into day and still he traveled the world, searching for what he so desperately needed. But most women shuddered at the mention of his name. “Ugh,” they said. “Winter.”

And just when it seemed that things could not get any worse, they did. Winter felt a sharp pain in his chest. He clutched his chest and staggered, feeling a layer of ice around his heart. Once it was totally frozen, he would feel nothing at all. An eternity of blandness lay before him.

Anything but that.

He searched harder, covering every hill and valley, going places he’d never been before.

He drove himself relentlessly, refusing to give up. But doubts crept in, along with the ice.

He was on the point of despair when he saw a woman building a snowman. Could this be her, at last? He roared in for a closer look. Something about the way she worked made his heart dance. She had bright hair and bright eyes and she was possessed with a delicious, open, brilliant face that made his cold knees buckle. He watched her build the figure. Her snowman had three round segments of just the right size and she used real coal for the eyes. It was clear she had a true appreciation of snow.

”Blow me down,” he said, “I think I’ve found her.”

By now he had no time to waste on polite chit-chat and so forth. He came at her like a storm. She went into her neat little log cabin and shut the windows.

Surprised but undeterred, he gusted down her chimney.

She put another log on the fire, and he retreated. Fast. He tumbled in the door with the drifting snow, majestic, ta-daaa!

She swept him out with her broom.

And Winter had a sudden inspiration. Subtlety, that’s what was needed here.

He froze the drops of dew on a spider’s web, individually. They glittered like diamonds; no cheap tat for this lady. But she walked by without seeing it.

He found some holly, and iced each berry until it shone, and then he laid the whole spray at her front door so it would please her eye, a bouquet of red and white, just so. But this time of year she only used the side door.

Frustrated, he took an apple and kissed it with snow and laid it in her path. She ran over it with a sit-down snowplow. The result was indescribable. At the sight of this, Winter’s chest felt uncomfortably tight. His heart was nearly covered with a thick crust of ice.

Time was running out.

But Winter had one final trick. He collected a series of icicles and made a wreath of such icy delicacy and skill that it made the birds gasp with delight. He hung it from her balcony, where it caught the light and sparkled and shone, the most beautiful thing in the world.

It fell when she opened the shutters, breaking into a thousand little shards on impact.

Winter sat among the shards in some despair, chin in his massive hand, brooding. He knew that this woman was the One, and yet, he could not win her love. He had given her everything he possessed.

Except.

His heart. The one thing he valued above all else. To give it away meant chancing a life of emptiness. Ignored by her, it would freeze on the spot, and be useless to him.

Forever.

He didn’t hesitate.

Winter left his heart on her doorstep, and went away to knock down some power lines on the interstate (a contractual obligation), and refused to think about what he’d risked until the job at hand was finished.

He returned expecting nothing, prepared to go on his way without troubling her, because although he had no heart (having given it to her) he had strength, dignity and the kind of steadfast honest fortitude not often found in these parts.

His heart was not where he’d left it. Winter wondered, had she put it out with the recycling?

He looked inside her cabin. On her table stood a silver bowl and in it lay his heart. She caught his eyes and instead of turning away, smiled and danced for him. She used her hips and shoulders and hands to tell him that she loved him like he loved her, and her skin took on a golden shimmering hue unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and he knew he wanted her more than anything in this galaxy.

He nearly melted on the spot. His hat flew off. Rational thought went out of his wintry head. They would be together. He huffed and chugged and he built up an almighty gale and he swooshed towards the cabin, the desire of his body and heart at one within his soul (for that is the very best kind of desire). And she, at one with her desires opened the door wide for him. Their love was true and passionate.

And Summer met Winter, and the energy given off by their union was greater than all the forces of the universe combined. The cabin exploded into a million pieces, scattering debris high into the atmosphere.

Somewhere a recording needle did a wobbly little jig across a roll of paper, startling a bearded seismologist, who spilled his coffee, astonished at the unexpected blip that signaled the lover’s demise. Alas.

Yet, having known the best of each other in that instant before annihilation Summer and Winter counted themselves lucky.

Postscript:

When the skies cleared, a baby lay in the snow.

Her name is Spring.

Copyright © 2004 Lisa Tate

About the Author
Lisa Tate has seen 20 short stories in print in the UK, Australia, Canada and the USA. A collection of her stories is available from Twilight Times Books. She currently lives in Houston, where she runs a home for stray snowflakes. More on her work can be found at http://www.lisatate.net.