Write Brained Girl

This short-short story was written just to get myself past a writing block.

The Last Snow

The guests will start arriving at nine o’clock. The air is chilly, the ground grey. Gabe sits at the front window staring out into the yard. He’s been insisting all day that it’s going to snow tonight. We haven’t had snow in years. Not wanting to discourage his excitement, I just keep saying “maybe.” Though I worry that he’ll be crushed when it doesn’t.

“Sweetie, why don’t you put on your coat and go play while it’s still light?” He turns those bright blue eyes toward me. “Will you come out, too?” he begs. I ruffle his blond, feathery hair. “Can’t right now, kiddo. Gotta’ finish making the food for tonight’s party.” The corners of his little cherub mouth turn down. “I’ll play with you tomorrow, okay?” His face lights up. “We can make snow angels!” I consider telling him we won’t be able to; instead, I just smile and say “maybe.”

Guests start arriving at nine o’clock. The air is cold, the ground bare. Gabe sits at the front window, staring out into the darkness of the yard. He insisted all day that it’s going to snow tonight. We haven’t had snow in years. The doorbell rings. I pause on my way from the kitchen to the front door as I see him there, forehead against the glass. I feel a strange, vertigo sort of de ja vu. He turns his ice blue eyes toward me and I feel a shiver across my skin. “Will you come out now?” he pleads. I frown. “I can’t leave the guests, Gabe. Besides, it’s pitch-black out there. And freezing! We’ll play tomorrow.” He turns back to the window. I shake my head and hurry to answer the door.

It’s eleven o’clock and I’m already longing for an empty house and my warm bed. My feet are killing me. I turn a burner on and watch the blue flame. I wonder for the hundredth time why I decided to host a New Year’s Eve party so soon after. . . after. . . I’m suddenly light headed and dizzy. I grab at the counter to steady myself. I rub my temple and strain to think. So soon after what? Maybe I’ve had too much to drink.

The guests are already leaving at 12:01. They’re all leaving. They’re rushing out. Screaming. Why? I look over at Gabe, still sitting at the front window. “It’s snowing!” he insists. He turns to me with clear, icy eyes. “Will you come now?” he demands. I look out the window. There are soft, white flakes floating downward, settling on the cold ground. I’m in shock. No, wait. Not white. Grey. Pale grey. And not flakes; confetti. I stare, perplexed.

In the window’s reflection, there is a flashing, flooding of light behind me. Red, yellow, white, orange, blue. My house is full of light, and I can’t breathe. I grasp for understanding. I feel so confused. I stare at the ash falling outside the window. It is only then that I notice my own reflection, and beside me. . . I look quickly down at Gabe, whose frigid hand has taken my own, then back at my reflection. Only mine. I am suddenly hot. And cold. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go make snow angels.”