A Few Weeks Before March 21st
by Rory Lee
Posted: March 22, 2006
Ms. Nature looked outside her window—fog
emanating from its wooden edges—and tossed Robert Frost's
poem “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” to the
floor, suddenly growing impatient. She removed her half-moon reading
glasses and lit a cigarette. She inhaled four long drags, pausing
after each one to maximize its calming intoxication before grinding
the remains into an ashtray. She was draped in a pink, disheveled
robe, which had two holes (one under the left armpit and the other
on the bottom right hem), and pink curlers were sporadically woven
into her cardinal colored hair. Her slippers were once bright yellow,
but now they were faded with brown splashes of hot chocolate: her
second major vice.
Ms. Nature was cold and, despite the cigarette, still exasperated
and weary. She jaunted to the kitchen and turned up her thermostat;
her plump, orange cat, Rita, was asleep next to her half-eaten bowl
of tuna—she was always asleep. Grabbing her Santa Claus decorated
mug, she frantically searched the cupboards, hoping a cup of hot
chocolate might cheer her up. Much to her chagrin, she was fresh
out. Ms. Nature's frustration was mounting: she was out of hot chocolate,
her cat was a bore, her nose was half-plugged, and her house—despite
her outrageous electricity bills—never was warm enough. It
was time.
Grabbing her coat and wrapping her woolen scarf around her neck,
Ms. Nature stepped outside her tiny, triangular house. Gloves intact,
she crossed her arms over her chest and rigorously rubbed her shoulders,
warming up her blood before traipsing over to her '87 Buick. She
turned the key and let out a disgruntled groan: it never started
on the first try this time of year. A few attempts later, her car
eventually started, and, with the corroded Buick's wipers oscillating
over the windshield, Ms. Nature turned down her snowy driveway.
A 5.6 mile drive and two Frank Sinatra songs later, Ms. Nature
came to a halt next to Mr. February's house—it had been years
since she visited him; she usually saved this trip for Mr. March.
She got out of her car and lit another cigarette, which, due to
the snowfall, was difficult to do. She pulled from her coat a green
stocking cap with a yellow daisy embroidered on the front and tried
to cover her head before she remembered her curlers. Finishing her
cigarette quickly, she popped the back trunk and dug around for
what she truly wanted: a baseball bat.
Ms. Nature, bat in hand, trotted up Mr. February's hill as the
deep snow collapsed into the inside of her boot—the bitter,
icy cold sensation only affirmed her intentions; it was time.
Ms. Nature stopped just in front of Mr. Frosty, who was stationed
right outside Mr. February's window. Frosty's carrot nose and black
coal facial features were still connected; however, his top hat
lied haphazardly next to one of his unattached twig arms. She clenched
her chipped Louisville Slugger and cocked it back, looking one last
time at Mr. February's Valentine's Day decals still in the righthand
corner of his window. She felt a slight ounce of regret. That was,
until she remembered her lack of hot chocolate, her monotonous cat,
her half-plugged nose, and her freezing house. A glint of hysteria
beamed in her eyes. She swung.
Two vicious strikes to the head, three to the middle lump, and
seven to the rotund bottom ball. The carrot was in two; the twig
arms were smashed. Winter was dead. Content with her work, Ms. Nature
lit another cigarette, took an exceptionally long pull, and headed
back to her car. Suddenly, there was considerably less snow on the
way down the hill, and this time, her Buick started quite effortlessly;
she liked that.
SPRNGZHR, her license plate read in bold, black letters as she
drove away. SPRNGZHR.
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