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.