Part 1

He followed her gaze to the window pushing back back a wave of sorrow. The snow sparkled innocent, unspoiled. Time and the elements covered much, anger, despair, blame, now whitewashed hulks beneath a dusting of habitual companionship.

How long has it been since weve played in the snow? He asked. How long has it been since weve felt young?

"Too long." She replied a brittle laugh, her fingers returning quickly to their forgotten task of sorting stamps into even piles.

Too old with nothing to remind us of youth. A cool breeze stirred his mind and the idea captured him. He closed the book with a dull thud. Dropping it to the couch Vasil walked to meet his wife. He kneeled at her feet and took one hand in his. "Mrs. Anne Petrovich, would you care to take a walk in the snow with me?"

"Silly man!" Anne berated, but her smile was like the sun peeking through a heavy covering of clouds, and shaking her head, she rose to get her coat.

She danced, tossed merrily by the wind before laying tired to the ground and starting again. Falling. Forming. Caught up and tumbling to meet herself, the biting cold embraced her. Tickled her fancy. Had she understood smiling she would have laughed.

She felt it all, stirring and recreating. Tossed askance by the wind before returning pieces to the earth once more. Soulless treads pushed her down, around, dulling her sparkle with their dirt. She erased them in admiring the different patterns on her skin.

And in all this she felt a longing. Within her, outside her, she heard it in the twitterings of the ones who shifted her body. Carving and shaping it into haphazard reflections of themselves.

"Mister Vasil Petrovich, you will regret this backhanded attack if it is the last thing I do!" Mrs. Anne Petrovich shook snow from her coat with an air of rueful humor, reaching down to gather in her gloves a return volley.

Their previous melancholy had faded to half heard whisper and in the flushed face of the woman before him, Vasil remembered his bride. Our daughter too would have been beautiful. Ten perfect fingers and toes left frigid in the sleep of an angel called back too soon. Ten fingers and toes and no more chances, no way science could help, no miracle for a barren womb.

Vasil ducked an ill flown snowball, laughing heartily over memories of pain.

No children; they were too far removed and his record too blotted to foster. A legacy of tragedy and mistake, but they had each other and in moments like this it was enough.

Catching their breath, meeting in the snowy drifts, husband and wife sparkled as the flakes they frolicked through.

"So what do you suggest we do now, Mrs. Petrovich?", Vasil asked his wife.

"Well, there is a small matter of retribution." Anne replied, holding one hand behind her back with a mysterious grin.

Perhaps we should call a truce. Backing away slowly, he held one glove in front of his face. "How about a snowman...beat our ice into plowshares or suchlike!"

A cold smack hit his hand and splattered bits on his face in a sodden thud of wet and dripping snow.

She twirled and eddied but her link to the sky was fading. Slowing. The wind would still and she would lay sluggish, sleeping, until the cycle woke again. Had she understood sadness she would have cried.

Freedom was fleeting and tranquility dull. Too soon she was always laid to rest. But she remembered somethingdifferent.

They rolled snow, first a game, piling it, perfecting it until lumpy stacks became form. Without thinking, almost, he carefully shaped hands and feet, his craftsmans fingers constructing hers near perfection, frigid and still. His wife made the face from memory: chin, upturned nose, eyes closed in frightful sleep.

They didn't speak, both too focused on the task which had become part construction, part mausoleum. They didn't speak, didn't hope, merely created, hardly breathing.

Ten fingers, ten toes, she stood four feet tall, a memorial of ice...a memory of what might have been.

They stopped, shocked ill at what they'd done, how they'd twisted the snow into an image of their pain.

Catching her hand, she ripped it from him, sobbing softly at the memory of her lost child. Tears mixed with the child of snow, falling rivulets down her hair and his breath warmed her ice skin.

Wrapping his arms around his wife's body, she finally leaned into him, shuddering in waves. He closed his eyes and together they mourned through the easing of the storm.

She lay sluggish to the earth, struggling to hold off sleep. Watching. Soon she would be a memory, landscape and then gone. She felt them held fast to the ground without even the wind to lend them flight. Joy. Sorrow. Had she understood envy she would have reached.

Forming. Changing. Coelescing. She remembered a part of their life each time they changed her. Breath, salt and ice: the figure compelled her. Made of her and something other, she drew closer, saturating it with every passing moment.


		Copyright 2002 under author's legal name.



		Part 1: They hoped, they prayed, they bargained, they pleaded and in the end they failed. Now their plans were buried as thoroughly as the falling snow layered familiar objects: the old station wagon, the garage, a neighbors home in the distance. She smiled, her placid face a mask of contentment. "First storm of the year." She observed softly. "Yes." His hands, craftsmans hands, cradled a page not yet turned. He followed her gaze to the window pushing back back a wave of sorrow. The snow sparkled innocent, unspoiled. Time and the elements covered much, anger, despair, blame, now whitewashed hulks beneath a dusting of habitual companionship. How long has it been since weve played in the snow? He asked. How long has it been since weve felt young? "Too long." She replied a brittle laugh, her fingers returning quickly to their forgotten task of sorting stamps into even piles. "Were likely too old for that foolishness." Too old with nothing to remind us of youth. A cool breeze stirred his mind and the idea captured him. He closed the book with a dull thud. Dropping it to the couch Vasil walked to meet his wife. He kneeled at her feet and took one hand in his. "Mrs. Anne Petrovich, would you care to take a walk in the snow with me?" "Silly man!" Anne berated, but her smile was like the sun peeking through a heavy covering of clouds, and shaking her head, she rose to get her coat. ** She danced, tossed merrily by the wind before laying tired to the ground and starting again. Falling. Forming. Caught up and tumbling to meet herself, the biting cold embraced her. Tickled her fancy. Had she understood smiling she would have laughed. She felt it all, stirring and recreating. Tossed askance by the wind before returning pieces to the earth once more. Soulless treads pushed her down, around, dulling her sparkle with their dirt. She erased them in admiring the different patterns on her skin. And in all this she felt a longing. Within her, outside her, she heard it in the twitterings of the ones who shifted her body. Carving and shaping it into haphazard reflections of themselves. She wondered. And a part of her remembered. * "Mister Vasil Petrovich, you will regret this backhanded attack if it is the last thing I do!" Mrs. Anne Petrovich shook snow from her coat with an air of rueful humor, reaching down to gather in her gloves a return volley. Their previous melancholy had faded to half heard whisper and in the flushed face of the woman before him, Vasil remembered his bride. Our daughter too would have been beautiful. Ten perfect fingers and toes left frigid in the sleep of an angel called back too soon. Ten fingers and toes and no more chances, no way science could help, no miracle for a barren womb. Vasil ducked an ill flown snowball, laughing heartily over memories of pain. No children; they were too far removed and his record too blotted to foster. A legacy of tragedy and mistake, but they had each other and in moments like this it was enough. Catching their breath, meeting in the snowy drifts, husband and wife sparkled as the flakes they frolicked through. "So what do you suggest we do now, Mrs. Petrovich?", Vasil asked his wife. "Well, there is a small matter of retribution." Anne replied, holding one hand behind her back with a mysterious grin. Perhaps we should call a truce. Backing away slowly, he held one glove in front of his face. "How about a snowman...beat our ice into plowshares or suchlike!" A cold smack hit his hand and splattered bits on his face in a sodden thud of wet and dripping snow. "Good idea!" She said brightly, beginning to make a pile. Wicked woman! "An eye for an eye." She replied, "Now come over here and help." "Of course, ma'am." * She twirled and eddied but her link to the sky was fading. Slowing. The wind would still and she would lay sluggish, sleeping, until the cycle woke again. Had she understood sadness she would have cried. Freedom was fleeting and tranquility dull. Too soon she was always laid to rest. But she remembered somethingdifferent. She struggled. And a part of her surveyed. * They rolled snow, first a game, piling it, perfecting it until lumpy stacks became form. Without thinking, almost, he carefully shaped hands and feet, his craftsmans fingers constructing hers near perfection, frigid and still. His wife made the face from memory: chin, upturned nose, eyes closed in frightful sleep. They didn't speak, both too focused on the task which had become part construction, part mausoleum. They didn't speak, didn't hope, merely created, hardly breathing. And in the end they had a child. Ten fingers, ten toes, she stood four feet tall, a memorial of ice...a memory of what might have been. They stopped, shocked ill at what they'd done, how they'd twisted the snow into an image of their pain. "Vasil." She choked, stepping closer, touching it with a shaking glove. "I know." Catching her hand, she ripped it from him, sobbing softly at the memory of her lost child. Tears mixed with the child of snow, falling rivulets down her hair and his breath warmed her ice skin. Wrapping his arms around his wife's body, she finally leaned into him, shuddering in waves. He closed his eyes and together they mourned through the easing of the storm. * She lay sluggish to the earth, struggling to hold off sleep. Watching. Soon she would be a memory, landscape and then gone. She felt them held fast to the ground without even the wind to lend them flight. Joy. Sorrow. Had she understood envy she would have reached. She remembered. Forming. Changing. Coelescing. She remembered a part of their life each time they changed her. Breath, salt and ice: the figure compelled her. Made of her and something other, she drew closer, saturating it with every passing moment. She reached. And she opened her eyes. * To Be Continued Comments! Critique! Email the Author :) Original Fiction Home


				*Snow Maiden* *Part 1*



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