WHITE DEATH
By Steve Kissing
My 56-year-old cousin June called me last night during a snowstorm. She was alone because her three kids were spending the week with her ex, a great guy who hung in there longer than any saint would have. Even as a kid, June was bossy and somehow saw herself as the matriarch of our entire family.
Ecstatic and weeping tears of joy on the phone, June said I had to come to her house right away. I asked if it could wait until the morning, but she insisted that I come--immediately. "I want you to be the first to see, the first to know," she said.
"To see what? To know what?" I asked.
"Come right now, and you'll see," she said, and hung up.
I put on my boots, a camouflage ski jacket and black hunting gloves, and I traipsed to June's house a couple of blocks away, recalling that time when I was about 10 and she talked me into climbing down into a sewer to retrieve her coin purse.
When I arrived at June’s house, I saw her through the picture window in her living room. She waved me in. "What's the big deal?" I asked, kicking the snow off my boots and brushing it from my coat.
"Look," she said, pointing to the window. I peeked out and saw nothing unusual.
"Jesus, June, what am I supposed to see besides my own footprints?"
"No, no! Look at the window, at those two snowflakes right there," she said, putting her finger an inch from the glass.
"What about them?" I said, getting annoyed that I dragged my tired ass through the snow to look at, of all things, two lousy snowflakes.
"Look really hard, even use this magnifying glass if you want.” She paused and then said, “They're identical!,” while gasping, as if amazed by her own words. Then she added, "They told us that no two snowflakes are the same, but these are. Look! See?"
I took a good look after grabbing the magnifying glass, even though I was tempted to just hit her on the head with it. I had to admit that they did look quite similar and maybe even identical, which I found a bit interesting, of course, but nothing more.
"You know what this means?" June asked as I handed back the magnifying glass.
"No, I can't say that I do," I said, still annoyed.
"It means that God has ordained me the Chosen One, and henceforth all will bow to me. Isn't it lovely?"
I looked around for an open bottle of booze or some pills, some evidence that she wasn't of right mind. I didn't see anything unusual. "I wouldn't get carried away," I said, and then I was suddenly hit with a stinging sensation in my chest.
"I won't tolerate such disrespect; I am the Chosen One!" June said, full of defiance. My chest hurt even more. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack.
"OK, OK, I am at your service, oh Chosen One," I said between panicked breaths, more to appease her than anything else. Immediately, my chest felt better.
"Thank you for the proper respect. Now go home and get some sleep. I’ll have some special assignments for you tomorrow," June said. "But as you leave, stop and make three snow angels in my front yard."
I buttoned up my coat and left quickly. I laid down three times in her front yard, leaving behind the three snow angels she requested, while she stared at me with a strange grin through the window. I got up and quickly walked home, all the way studying the snowflakes that landed on my black gloves. Not surprisingly, I could find no two that even looked somewhat alike.
Once home and warming up over a cup of hot cocoa, I concluded that the identical snowflakes were indeed a sign. June was the Chosen One. Satan's Chosen One, that is. And she would need to die.
I went to sleep, and I woke up just an hour or so ago, long enough to eat some oatmeal, clean my rifle and plan to position myself in the field across from June's house--right where I’ll have a clean shot at her through the snow-dusted picture window.
---
BIO: Steve’s stories and poems have appeared (or soon will) in such print and online journals as: THICK WITH CONVICTION, BEST POEM, POETRY FRIENDS, BOSTON LITERARY MAGAZINE, BULL, BOLTS OF SILK, BREADCRUMB SCABS, and PATERSON LITERARY REVIEW.
By Steve Kissing
My 56-year-old cousin June called me last night during a snowstorm. She was alone because her three kids were spending the week with her ex, a great guy who hung in there longer than any saint would have. Even as a kid, June was bossy and somehow saw herself as the matriarch of our entire family.
Ecstatic and weeping tears of joy on the phone, June said I had to come to her house right away. I asked if it could wait until the morning, but she insisted that I come--immediately. "I want you to be the first to see, the first to know," she said.
"To see what? To know what?" I asked.
"Come right now, and you'll see," she said, and hung up.
I put on my boots, a camouflage ski jacket and black hunting gloves, and I traipsed to June's house a couple of blocks away, recalling that time when I was about 10 and she talked me into climbing down into a sewer to retrieve her coin purse.
When I arrived at June’s house, I saw her through the picture window in her living room. She waved me in. "What's the big deal?" I asked, kicking the snow off my boots and brushing it from my coat.
"Look," she said, pointing to the window. I peeked out and saw nothing unusual.
"Jesus, June, what am I supposed to see besides my own footprints?"
"No, no! Look at the window, at those two snowflakes right there," she said, putting her finger an inch from the glass.
"What about them?" I said, getting annoyed that I dragged my tired ass through the snow to look at, of all things, two lousy snowflakes.
"Look really hard, even use this magnifying glass if you want.” She paused and then said, “They're identical!,” while gasping, as if amazed by her own words. Then she added, "They told us that no two snowflakes are the same, but these are. Look! See?"
I took a good look after grabbing the magnifying glass, even though I was tempted to just hit her on the head with it. I had to admit that they did look quite similar and maybe even identical, which I found a bit interesting, of course, but nothing more.
"You know what this means?" June asked as I handed back the magnifying glass.
"No, I can't say that I do," I said, still annoyed.
"It means that God has ordained me the Chosen One, and henceforth all will bow to me. Isn't it lovely?"
I looked around for an open bottle of booze or some pills, some evidence that she wasn't of right mind. I didn't see anything unusual. "I wouldn't get carried away," I said, and then I was suddenly hit with a stinging sensation in my chest.
"I won't tolerate such disrespect; I am the Chosen One!" June said, full of defiance. My chest hurt even more. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack.
"OK, OK, I am at your service, oh Chosen One," I said between panicked breaths, more to appease her than anything else. Immediately, my chest felt better.
"Thank you for the proper respect. Now go home and get some sleep. I’ll have some special assignments for you tomorrow," June said. "But as you leave, stop and make three snow angels in my front yard."
I buttoned up my coat and left quickly. I laid down three times in her front yard, leaving behind the three snow angels she requested, while she stared at me with a strange grin through the window. I got up and quickly walked home, all the way studying the snowflakes that landed on my black gloves. Not surprisingly, I could find no two that even looked somewhat alike.
Once home and warming up over a cup of hot cocoa, I concluded that the identical snowflakes were indeed a sign. June was the Chosen One. Satan's Chosen One, that is. And she would need to die.
I went to sleep, and I woke up just an hour or so ago, long enough to eat some oatmeal, clean my rifle and plan to position myself in the field across from June's house--right where I’ll have a clean shot at her through the snow-dusted picture window.
---
BIO: Steve’s stories and poems have appeared (or soon will) in such print and online journals as: THICK WITH CONVICTION, BEST POEM, POETRY FRIENDS, BOSTON LITERARY MAGAZINE, BULL, BOLTS OF SILK, BREADCRUMB SCABS, and PATERSON LITERARY REVIEW.
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